


Look in My Tormented Eye

by darkmagess



Series: Tormented 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Dark, First Time, Graphic Sex, M/M, Rape, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-13
Updated: 2010-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-08 22:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmagess/pseuds/darkmagess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just after Castiel and Dean arrive at an understanding, Castiel vanishes from his post, and Dean and Sam are enlisted to search for him. They suspect it is the work of a demon, but the nature of the plot and his plight is more than what they could have anticipated. And worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_ **He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God. -Aeschylus (525 BC – 456 BC)** _

_Hellfire. It burns low. It burns black and hot, pouring out more coal fumes and car exhaust than light. They stoke the fire with souls, and it pulses sharper with their agony. When Lucifer shivers, more of the damned are pulled from their racks for fodder, their screams as much a balm as the heat._

There is no heat on Earth to compare to the sweating, the baking. The damned can feel themselves cooking, the subtle boil and pop of escaping juice. But never done.

Even off the rack, never done.

Torches to see by flicker along the walls of the room, Dean's room, a collage of the empty basements and dead haunted cellars from his life. The room where he has practiced this art with bloody hands. The soul once had a name. She may have told him, but those things don't matter here.

He turns her hand over, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as the whole of her jerks against the ties that keep her down. She mutters a litany of "no, no, no" and "please, don't" that make the edges of his mouth curl.

The two most sensitive places on a human are the fingertips and the tongue. Alastair taught him that. Dean's gaze caresses the upturned hand, fingertips ragged stumps of bleeding meat that quiver.

There are seven kinds of pain. Alastair taught him that as well. Burning, aching, stabbing... these are his favorites.

In a thought, her fingers are restored, whole and new. Primed. It's like looking at a blank canvas, there is nothing ahead but possibility.

The woman makes a mewling sound high in her throat and tries to slip her hand from his grasp, but he clamps down hard, squeezing her fingers together in a crush.

"Now, now," he smirks.

"Don't," she replies in the lightest of voices, somehow finding the capacity for more tears.

Dean reaches for the tools, his tools. He lifts a pin from the table, straight and thin. He could do it quickly. She watches with wide, terrified eyes as he moves the pin closer to her trapped hand. He could. The tip of the pin touches the very tip of her index finger. But he won't.

With just enough pressure, he pushes down, driving the sliver in just near the bone. Shrieks like song break the woman's throat with each fraction of an inch. The second time is never as good as the first, but she is compliant in her agony, and this feels like joy.

Dean slathers her blood over his hands and reaches for a knife. He leans in close, to study her face drawn in pain as tears streak from her eyes. When he lays the knife against her cheek, the sudden shock snaps her eyes open, and she's staring at him. Staring into him.

It takes only a moment, only a spark, for the rush in his chest he had taken for joy to be fear. For it to be his cheek under the knife, his blood, his screams. For him to be there and here and both and bent and breaking.

He cannot scramble away fast enough, even as the knife clatters on the floor. There is, there is... hellfire.

Then light. Light as there has never been light, a shine like diamonds, like the sun on the water and diving into a cool pool. So brilliant, it burns his eyes to see, and he cowers against the wall, breathing great gasps of putrid smoke.

"Dean." A familiar voice, and kind. "Come away from this." Castiel.

And then he knows this is a dream. The angel touches his arms to draw his hands away from his face.

"This is done," the angel says calmly. "Come away."

And Dean lets himself be drawn.  


  
It was like waking from a dream, only different. Dean felt himself come to, felt the visions of Hell slip back down. But he hadn't opened his eyes and had no idea where he was, where they were. Because the only thing he was sure of, other than the fact that they weren't in Hell, was that he was leaning on someone. More specifically, that someone held him lightly, cradled his head against their shoulder, and breathed at a slow, steady pace.

Castiel. Had to be. The thought made him feel he should scowl, but the effort to do so was beyond his reach. He hadn't the for effort anything, lately. Awake, the weight of the air was too much to take. He wanted to run, but even running, there he would always be. And there was no hiding from the truth that of all people, of course, Dean Winchester would be the one who let, literally, everyone down. No amount of booze obscured it. There were not enough sorries in enough languages. So instead, he said nothing. Ate nothing. Took nothing from the world that it might forget his treading, and tried to sleep. In sleep, he dreamed of Hell. And now this.

Dean let his senses stretch. Beyond the sound of Castiel's heart beating, he could hear the slow lap and roll of the ocean. Wherever they were, it sounded like calm seas. The air was filled with a salty spray and the faint hint of seaweed washed ashore. He sent his attention to his limbs and found sand pressing into his bare legs. One arm felt the folds of crisp cotton, which he imagined would be Cas's shirt, and the heat of the body beneath. The angel was warm and similarly solid beneath his cheek and shoulder, and he could just make out the pressure of a hand at his back.

Slowly, Dean cracked one eye open and wasn't surprised to discover that it was night time. It looked like the angel had conjured a full moon. Without lifting his head or moving, it was hard to see the beach, but he knew in an instant that it was a green sand beach, in the way one knows things in dreams. They had those in Hawaii, those beaches. Promised himself a long time ago he'd go see one. Never did. Never would.

Along with the waves and the silvery moonlight, a warm breeze moved across the shoreline, shifting Dean's hair and brushing velvet fingers over his skin. He thought about moving. Seriously considered getting up and asking just what Castiel thought he was doing hugging him on a beach. Weren't there people to save? Demons to kill? But nothing wanted to respond. His limbs felt heavy with liquid languidness. And then there was the peace-an alien calm that felt safe and easy. It whispered enticing things. If he just stayed as he was, neither of them crossing into the unacknowledged space by attempting to move, maybe it would be ok. Maybe it could just be and be good.

How long had it been since anything had felt truly comfortable? The thought made him itch. He didn't do comfortable. And he didn't do snuggling with men, either.

Mind over matter, Dean moved a muscle. And then he lifted his head from Castiel's chest. Emptiness slapped his quickly cooling cheek and just as quickly opened a pit in his gut. The reaction was visceral as his sense of self recoiled from the sudden absence and sought to curl itself down into a defensive ball. He could feel it churning, the wariness, the separation, the worry, the walls, the loathing, his for the taking if he wanted them. He'd moved only a fraction, but he was alone.

Breathless with shock, Dean lowered back down a mere inch, reclaiming what he had no right to. The angel's hand returned to where it had been, though Dean hadn't noticed it moving, and the serene sensation of belonging returned. Despite himself, Dean let out a sigh. He slid his arms around Cas's waist, not quite gripping, but decidedly disturbing the unacknowledged space, and that made him nervous. Something crept at the edge of the space, something watched and disapproved. Alone was where he belonged.

They sat in silence until Dean eventually drifted off to sleep and woke rested in his motel room the next morning. Days later, the next time he had to be pulled from a nightmare, he wasn't surprised to find them sitting on the green sand, entwined as they had been before. Castiel had tucked one leg underneath himself to make more room and propped himself up on one arm. Dean moved his hands around the angel's waist and let them rest, heavy. The voice urged him to move, but he told it in defiance that this didn't mean anything. This was innocent. It became routine, night after night, sometimes days apart, just holding-a strange existence where he didn't have to think about saving Sam or stopping Sam, or hunting, or hurting, or failing, or any other thing he was good at.

Castiel was silent all the while, eyes on the rolling waves, but his presence was one of steady and attentive care. Dean even got used to the sound and rhythm of his breathing, always deep and meditative.

But one night something different sought Dean in his nightmares. Often, so often, he dreamed of being the torturer. He relived putting blades through people's bodies, plucking out their eyes, laughing at their screams. Rarely was he the one on the rack, feeling each cut and burn as a fresh quivering horror. Screaming until his throat closed, falling in blood and pieces.

That night, when Castiel's presence filled the darkness of Hell and swept him upward, he had tried to smile at the light, but his blood-dripping, toothless mouth could not remember the shape.

Dean jerked awake on the beach and bolted upright, a hand instinctively covering his mouth. He shuddered violently, shrinking inward, and quickly turned eyes half filled with tears out toward the ocean. He drew in an unsteady breath through his nose once, twice, seeking calm.

"You're safe here." Cas's first words in the dreamscape were soft and whispered lightly across the short space between them.

There was the sound of cotton crinkling, and Dean felt the angel's fingers slide through the hair at his temple and back over his ear. The breath he released in response came out as a laden sigh. He let his hand fall from his mouth. His jaw still shook, and his teeth ached. The sea remained blurry as he fought back the tears, unwilling to let the bastards win. He'd cried enough lately that there shouldn't have been any left; but he was good at finding new depths. At the second stroke from Cas's hand, the tears receded, unshed. Another and he could feel the tension starting to melt out of his muscles.

Dean's voice was thick when he spoke. "Why do you bring me here?" he asked without looking away from the water as it spread out and sank into the sand.

Castiel continued the soothing gesture and gazed at Dean's profile lit by moonlight. "I find it comforting," he said, "and I hoped you would as well. I thought it might help."

He watched the waves, silent for a moment. Then, "Why do you care?"

Castiel paused to consider his reply, his fingertips resting lightly in Dean's hair as though it never occurred to him to take them away. "Do you always ask people that?"

Dean huffed a humorless little laugh and worked his jaw. "No one's ever around long enough," came the quiet, strained reply.

After another silence, "Because I can." Temple to ear, he resumed.

Dean nodded a few times, a filler motion as his breathing slowly returned to normal. He peered down at his hands, rubbing them together, playing with nothing. He'd been wondering. Wasn't sure he should ask. "How often're you gonna try to save me?" He said it barely above a whisper.

Castiel stopped again, and Dean turned to look at him, their eyes locking briefly. "As often as you need," Cas said seriously, and then finished brushing his fingertips over Dean's ear.

Dean looked at him with an expression that flickered between hope and despair.

Castiel stroked again. His touch was calming and electric. It felt warm, safe, and enticing.

Dean had forgotten what touching was.

When Sam sat across the table from him lately, he was in another county somewhere. They didn't kick each other or fight to get in the door first. He didn't tuck him in when he fell asleep on the covers, because you didn't do that for strangers. Ellen was long gone, and Jo. Ash, dead. Pamela, dead. Dad, dead.

He didn't have the strength to be the charmer who brought chicks back from the bar. He sat in corners, huddled into his jacket, watching and trying not to beg every wandering eye for forgiveness. The world didn't owe him a damn thing, least of all that. A kind touch was better spent on someone else.

Castiel must not have been informed. Because he kept stroking the same easy rhythm, and it kept feeling better, like being plugged in.

"How are you doing that?" Dean muttered.

The angel frowned slightly. "Doing what?"

Dean pressed lightly into the touch on the next stroke. "That. It's like... feels so..." Good. Happy. Free. He concentrated on the sensation. When Cas's palm passed by his cheek, he turned into it and made a small sound, not even meaning to.

Castiel's eyes widened as he cupped Dean's face in his hand. "I'm not doing anything special," he insisted. Cas pulled his right hand from the sand where it had been propping him up, and it came away without a grain clinging to his skin-the magic of dreams. This he slid over Dean's other cheek and held him. His. His human, hard won. This soul, for which he bent in the doors of Hell. Traveled through fire that peeled his being. Through poison, through darkness. On his knees, he fought off demons with a small axe lit with God's fury, for this soul. Staggered, wailed, and toiled on. This soul, whom he held in the shelter of his scorching wings to spare it some measure of torment; whom he gripped too tightly, in fear that it may slip away. In all of time, in all the universe, Castiel had never known anything to be his, save this soul, who suffered still. And he wondered how to cradle its thin tissue of being so his love would not sunder it whole. So many bruises from so many burdens.

He sat up straighter and closed the small gap between them to place a chaste kiss on Dean's forehead. Then a light touch of lips over each closed eye.

Dean let out a sigh and shivered at the gossamer touch, wracked with gratitude and want. He opened his eyes to see his angel's intense gaze-young and ancient, determined and trusting, mostly, concerned and affectionate. It hit him with the same jolt as always, like a knife sinking into his chest that made him momentarily weak, set off his defenses, and made him dig in his heels to fight. Only now it slipped between broken plates and sank deeper, Frankenstein's lightning striking something old and fierce that lifted its head inside Dean and howled. He thought it had been salted and burned years ago, under a father's watchful eye-because when he was thirteen, Dad caught him making out with Curt Kierney. Because he threw him over the coffee table and told him never to come back. Because Dad nearly slugged him and wanted to know what the hell Dean thought he was doing. Because he's supposed to set an example for Sam, and I've never been so disappointed in you, son.

Dean jerked back as though bitten and scurried back on the sand.

The jolt. The desire. Oh, God. He knew, like the ring of a hammer, what it was.

"I can't," he said toward Cas's surprised face, the heat of want rising in his chest.

"You can't what?"

Castiel moved closer and arranged himself in a graceful mirror of Dean's pose, knees bent.

The man stared hard at the dark sand, his breaths coming quicker in both panic and arousal. "This... it’s... not who I'm supposed to be." He said it more to himself than anything and sounded disappointed.

He'd tried so hard to be the man Dad had wanted. Trained and fell and fought and once had the scars to prove it. Said good-bye until he stopped saying hello. For nothing. For a sandcastle washed to sea. He couldn't be less of the man his father wanted, except for this, the last hold out. Dean scooped a handful of sand and pitched it hard in anger.

Then he squeezed his eyes shut. He had a choice. Carry the ragged flag of his father's pride down a dusty road alone. Or let it go.

Cas reached out tentatively and closed a hand on Dean's wrist. "You already are who you are supposed to be," he said gently. "You always have been." Dean's miserable expression remained unchanged. "And I like who you are."

Dean laughed bitterly and opened his eyes to study the grains of sand. Slowly, he raised his eyes and gave his angel a searching gaze, looking for the hint of a lie, a joke. The honesty he found made him suck in an unnerved breath. And suddenly their eyes were locked again in the soul gaze that Dean could feel in his bones.

"Dean, what d--" Castiel began, but Dean freed his wrist from Cas's grip and set unsure fingers to rest on the angel's soft lips, more to quiet him than anything. He had to think. Castiel sat so close. So close, he could feel the angel's body heat. So close, he could kiss him right now and no one...

He closed his eyes. Felt Cas's breath on the back of his hand and the howling want scrabbling inside. He took an unsteady draw of salty air. The man his father wanted had no one. Nothing but a pride no one cared about. And he just couldn't see the point anymore. With sorrow, he let his trembling fingers loose and the ragged fabric slip to the dirt.

When he looked up, Cas was watching him, head canted in curiosity. Dean's fingers twitched, and the angel parted his lips slightly in response. It was enough.

Dean bent forward, hesitating once. But he slid his fingers aside and claimed a tentative kiss. Cas didn't push him away; and something inside broke. The cilice around his heart cracked loose-prongs so long embedded ripped out, leaving raw wounds that bled and throbbed in relief. Unbound and able to breathe, he felt... Free. So much soaring emotion in so small a word. Free. And he kissed freely.

Castiel's lips were warm and deliciously pliant when Dean sucked at the lower one and pressed on the upper. But they were also cautious, barely answering Dean's gentle assault.

That wasn't right. Dean slowed and kissed him more lightly, only to have Cas press him closer. Not cautious, he realized. Inexperienced. He grinned and felt a bubble of joy that sent heat to his groin when it burst.

He slid his hands up the angel's neck and settled them, palm to cheek, and pulled back to catch his breath. Castiel's eyes blazed and begged.

Twice Dean dragged his thumbs over the shadow of stubble on Cas's face and grinned at the tremor it caused. He kissed him again, slower. Dean pressed a kiss to the angel's lips, then the corner of his mouth. He sucked and licked, leaving space between that all of a sudden Cas started to fill. Dean hummed and crushed them together, panting and running his tongue over the other's mouth. "Open," he muttered, breathless. And Castiel complied, making a startled sound when he learned why.

Cas had a shy tongue, and Dean worked slowly to coax it out. Every small sound the angel made was articulate music. He spun joy and humor and desire into a chord. When they parted, hunger filled the space between. Dean let go and edged back out of Cas's grip. His chest heaved in spinning energy, and all he could think was that he hadn't had a kiss like that in years. Maybe not ever, not with that mix of boyish anticipation and skillful pride.

He gazed into Castiel's eyes, always expressive and quixotic, and was held frozen by the emotion he found there. Want. An act of choice. As Dean sat kneeling in the sand, he could feel Cas's eyes coursing over him. Too much and not nearly enough.

In a quick motion, he shed the t-shirt he vaguely remembered having gone to sleep in. And then Cas was there, silly tie and white shirt, spreading his hands over Dean's chest like he remembered this and was awed to feel it again. Dean let his head fall back and let himself just feel. When had every inch of skin become an erogenous zone, designed and destined for pleasure instead of pain?

Cas's fingers on his chin drew his head down and traced tender flesh. He didn't bother to open his eyes as he was being kissed. And God, what a good teacher he must be, because his angel had learned a new sacrament. Cas moved with power and assurance, as though kissing had been his invention, and added twists of his own, like nibbling on Dean's lower lip until it stung.

Castiel rubbed his hands over every inch of exposed skin. Over Dean's shoulders, around, and down his chest, skimming tight muscle. As his fingers fell around a nipple, he paused and withdrew from the kiss to investigate. Dean's breath hitched at the scrape of skin. For a moment, Cas looked thoughtful and then turned curious eyes on Dean's face. The man watched him with interest, even a bit of humor. Then he pinched, and Dean jumped and flinched away. "Don't." The angel's eyes narrowed, and he slid his other hand to the other side. Dean tensed beneath his palms, eyes remaining glued. This time, he pinched harder, and Dean hissed as he jerked.

"I said ‘don't.’" A slight frown.

"But you didn't mean it," Cas challenged, yanking him close.

"So you're the expert, now?"

"No... but I know when you lie."

Dean held the gaze for a few seconds longer and then looked away. His jaw flexed. And Castiel wondered if he had somehow misstepped, though he had spoken only truth. His heart jumped high with fear, and he closed a hand over the mark he had left on Dean's arm.

The man glanced quickly and then up to his face. Dean moved as if to speak and then wavered, struggling over the words. "I..." No one knew when he lied. Except for Sam. Lying was his life, his bulwark. His gaze fell and rose. "...really need to get you out of that stupid shirt," he finished with a smirk.

And it wasn't quite a lie.

Dean nudged Cas back, and the angel let himself be toppled. Dean reached for the tie and loosened the knot just enough to slip it off. Habit not to undo the whole thing. He sat, straddling Castiel's legs, painfully aware of every place their thighs touched. His fingers worked the first three buttons with relative ease, revealing pale flesh and taught muscle as each one came open. By the fourth, he was hard and aching, every movement causing a glorious friction. His fingers kept slipping on the small buttons.

"Damn, I never thought anything'd be harder than a bra."

The angel smirked and with an unfair amount of control, undid the rest of the buttons himself. He sat up enough for Dean to pull the shirt off and toss it away. And then they fell together in a sprawl on the sand, following the path of pleasure wherever it might lead. The rest of their clothes vanished as they sought new ground, and new sensation.

Dean lay sprawled and sweating on the ground, pressing into the hands that formed his animated clay. _...Breake, blowe, burn, and make me new..._ Dean tugged Cas up so he could hold him. Roll. Lay his weight, grip his hands, and for once in his life worship at a house of God.

Dean watched his hand skim over Castiel's glowing, slick skin, searching. He licked his lower lip in anticipation, feeling his way down the angel's panting chest and along the plane of his stomach. Then up, skirting a smooth side. Cas jumped, and Dean smiled a wicked smile. He bent his head to a spot just above the other man's hip and flicked out his tongue. Castiel squirmed and let out a low rumble of laughter that no human ears had ever heard.

Dean lifted his head and glanced up to see Cas's eyes on him. Without looking away, he slowly lowered toward the spot again.

"Don't."

He paused, torn. Another lick would win him another laugh. He could make him writhe on the sand, if he wanted, and the image of Castiel flushed tasted like chocolate and cherries. But there was a challenge in the angel's eyes. A curious will that turned to longing the more the gaze stretched. It was the longing that did him in.

Dean sat back on his heels and waited.

When an outstretched hand beckoned, he was there, stretching the full length of their bodies, licking the sweat from Cas's neck. The angel tossed his arms wide, moaning and arching in a shadow of dance. He dug curling fingers into the ground as though to tether them both. Fought for air when their dicks touched and slid as Dean moved.

Words whispered on warm winds, and Dean ran his fingers through Castiel's hair, just to make it wild and wanton, even though it always looked like good sex. He sang a litany of pleas, trying to keep his hips still, and failing.

_Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. I will die if I do not do this._

Castiel gasped a "Yes." Whatever it is, whatever it is, yes.

Dean rolled him quickly onto his side, his brain flinging half formed thoughts about as his teeth found a soft spot on Cas's shoulder. _Going to hell-forgot lube-condom-fuck-so beautiful. _

As Castiel's pulse raced under his tongue, he suddenly understood the erotic fascination with vampires. If he could have drunk him in, that could only be heaven.

With nothing around them but dream sand and sky, Dean settled for spit. With a nervous hand, he covered himself as best he could and braced with one arm. His lizard mind screamed warnings that he would be caught, be seen. He swallowed and placed a kiss on the back of Castiel's neck. Dean fought for control as he pressed against Cas's bare, perfect ass. God, he had to do this right. Do this right or burn up trying. He moved one hand between them, taking care to rub and coax. Paused and muttered a warning into his ear. One finger, cautiously. Another. And if that hurt, Cas didn’t seem to care. So he shifted to grip him around his waist. And groaned as he slid in.

Castiel's fingers bit into his arm. The angel's whole body tightened, and Dean stopped, panting.

"Relax... have to relax," he breathed, kissing from neck to shoulder. "Please, I can't--"

The grip eased. Muscle by muscle, he could feel Castiel unwind, careful and disciplined. He made love like he made war.

The first thrust was slow and exquisite. The angel threw back his head and moaned. He could have been sculpted from bliss.

The second picked up the pace. Dean concentrated on steady motion.

He lost count at the third.

Sweat poured down his back and evaporated into the night air, leaving Dean hot and chilled together. He'd taken Cas's dick in his hand and for every thrust, stroked. Cas writhed with the rhythm, slamming into his hand, bucking back.

Too soon. Dean bit his lip and tried to count or think of ice. But liquid pleasure boiled over, and he was racing. Too soon. He slowed. Cas wasn't ready, wasn't near close enough.

He pumped his hand harder, faster. But the angel shoved back against him anyway, calling his name.

"Too close," he breathed, pained.

Castiel made a strangled, frustrated sound, grinding his hips back. And Dean relented.

A few more thrusts into the wet, hot space, and he convulsed, grunting into Cas's shoulder and shuddering his climax. Forehead bent to Castiel's shoulder blade, he paused and panted, pulsing with aftershocks. In the seconds it took to regain himself, the angel's hand closed over his and forced him to stroke.

Dean could have laughed. Instead, he started rocking his hips with new urgency.

Castiel felt Dean's pace quicken and started to thrash, clutching ground and arm and strands of Dean's hair. He buried his hands in his own hair and moaned as a strange sensation built from nowhere. It felt insistent and feral, clawing its way upward, outward.

"Dean!" He gasped with fear and felt the man caress his shoulder with his cheek. "Something... wrong, this... I feel..."

"Like you're gonna fly apart."

He nodded in jerks. Dean's ragged breath bathed his ear. "Reach for it."

Castiel frowned and struggled in Dean's grip. He didn't know how to reach. But this thing, this wall, this yearning hurt. Dean's thrusts suddenly changed, his hand on his dick tightened, and the ball of screaming energy grew. In frustration, Castiel turned his attention to it.

This was how to reach.

Castiel came, crying out with his vessel's full throat. He doubled over.

Dean watched the angel's skin began to glow. Thin fissures spidered open, spilling brilliant light. It seared his eyes and the air vibrated with an aura of awesome majesty. Dean made a sound of shock and pain and roll quickly away to shield himself. He could feel the sudden emptiness behind him when the light winked out.

Breathing heavily, Dean opened his eyes and blinked. He cleaned his hand in glistening green dream sand slowly. And when he looked back, Castiel lay still, curled on his side.

Fear like an icicle dropped into Dean's gut. Oh, God. Maybe there was some Heavenly Host Anti-Orgasm Clause. He shouldn't have-should have known better.

"Cas?" Cautiously. No reply. "Castiel!" He grabbed the angel's shoulder and rolled him, heart beating against his ribs.

Cas unfurled his limbs like blossoming and stared. Dean stared back.

"I nearly hurt you," the angel's voice was small.

Relief left Dean weak. "You mean that light show?" Cas nodded. "Eh. I'm fine." He shrugged. "No harm, no foul, right?" He gazed down with a half smile that was returned with a slight grin. Crisis averted.

Satisfied, Dean laid himself on the sand, a familiar drowsiness taking hold. He felt Cas's fingers in his hair and shifted closer to pillow his head on the angel's shoulder.

For awhile, there was only the sound of crashing waves. Castiel glanced down at the top of Dean's head. The man was thinking so loudly that surely the stars could hear it.

"What?" he said at last.

Dean huffed. "I was just..."

Cas waited.

"You know I still like chicks, right?"

The angel chuckled and let his head fall back to the ground. "Yes, Dean."

He felt the man turn to look at him but then settle back. "N' you're okay with that."

"You are as you have always been." He ran his hand through Dean's damp hair.

"Not an answer."

Castiel sighed. "Are you asking me if I will be jealous?"

"Will you?"

"No."

Again he felt Dean turn to look at him. "Would it've killed you to say yes?" he muttered.

Castiel closed his eyes and sighed to his bones. "Go to sleep, Dean."

Under the quiet of the stars, for once, Dean listened.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel opened his eyes and breathed deep the air of the Mojave. He let his gaze wander over the vista rolled out and glistening beneath his perch on Cap Rock, but he took in none of its quiet grandeur. He had been gone a few minutes, maybe. Time twisted in dreams like it did in Heaven. And Hell.

He kept running over it in his mind, the way Dean had recoiled in fear. Castiel had tried then, and continued now, to puzzle out the struggle he had witnessed so plainly. He had let Dean direct their encounter, unsure of what he needed, knowing only what he himself was willing to give.

He could still feel the weight of Dean's head on his bare shoulder. His warmth, radiating skin to skin. Dean had been kind in their lovemaking (because he would not give it any other name). Patient and attentive, stilling at the gentle press of a hand on his neck, ravenous and giving when he sensed want. It was fascinating and terrifying. Castiel wondered how many such subtleties had skirted beneath his notice and hoped they numbered few. Already, he found himself aching with want, distracted. His vessel now seemed less a mask he wore and more an extension of his being. Dean had discovered that he was ticklish-Castiel ran a hand over the spot on his hip-and this intimate knowledge sent a thrill down his spine. His Earthly body had secrets, discrete and important truths that no proper angel should know.

They made him want to rejoice and share with his kin. They made him want to retreat and covet something that was for them alone. In the silence around him, his thoughts echoed.

Cap Rock rose above the desert floor, an island of stone amidst the creosote and Joshua trees of the Mojave. Castiel stood on the cap itself, a single boulder placed on the crest of an inselberg formation as though God had been distracted and idly set a piece of his play set aside.

The Joshua trees stretched arthritic fingers toward the stars. They dotted the ground, looking shaggy and alien during the day, fuzzy and warm at night. They had old souls, these trees. Their growth was slow, and nothing counted the days and nights they had seen. Their secrets were their own.

The old people of the desert believed that spirits lived in everything: humans, animals, plants. They revered the souls found there, honored their being and the knowledge they had acquired. A bit of God did exist in all of Creation, Castiel knew that to be true. He wondered what knowledge these trees might have; what they could have seen in the middle of so much awesome emptiness.

More, if they had such stories, he wished that they would share.

His orders had placed him alone in this hot wilderness. As ever, "Protect the seal." Only now without Uriel and his familiar muttering. That an emptiness gaped at his right hand was unsettling. It was new. And it rankled that he felt Uriel's absence like a punishment, when by all rights he should be glad of it. Defiantly, he scowled and strove to feel righteous anger. Brothers and sisters dead. _Disobedience!_ The traitor had deserved his fate.

Castiel's thoughts froze solid, coming to such an abrupt halt that he leaned back slightly.

_ Deserved his fate._ His mind's eye showed him Dean, purple with bruises, crumbling under a weight he had never earned. _It is not blame that falls on you, Dean. It's fate._ Castiel thought again of Uriel, an agent of Fate. Heart heavy, Castiel sagged. These gyres turned outside his knowing, and even for an angel, he felt small in the vastness of the universe.

From the east, a cold wind blew, flapping his coat around his legs. He let the chill bite at his skin to study the sensation and give him a reason to turn his mind from its maze. He had been sent here to watch, and that he would do. The old people had been right to revere the power in this land. While not lush like the plains or as eminent as mountains, this desert was a portrait of the baffling mosaic of his Father's mind. Life forced to the brink of possibility, balanced against itself, tipping its head for rain. Fragrant bursting life huddled beneath the soil waiting, sustained by the veins of the earth.

Here, below Cap Rock, such veins crossed. Five came together in a star, all connecting at the same point. There was nowhere else on the planet with such a concentration. From nowhere else would so many regions be affected by a destruction of the line. It was an important task to ensure that no demon came to this spot and corrupted the flow. He had repeated it to himself many times as he watched the coyotes trot across the desert floor.

With a sigh, Cas slipped his hands into his pockets. He had never given much thought to eternity being a long time.

As he scanned the surrounding landscape, he noted familiar features, the skitters of small creatures and those that hunted them. There was a parking lot not far from the rock, for tourists. But it was empty.

Except…

The ghost of a shadow moved. Larger than a coyote. It wove in and out of his line of sight as it came up the road toward the lot. A person's shape. A person's size.

The angel's eyes flashed.

A demon's soul.

He stepped and stood instantly on solid ground at the base of the rock formation. The demon had possessed what looked like a hiker. A bright yellow backpack stuck up behind his head as he marched forward. The body was short and lean. He looked young, and Castiel found himself idly wondering if he could cast out the demon and save the human host. He would try, at any rate.

The angel peered from behind the trunk of a Joshua tree, trying to see if the demon was as alone as he seemed. He watched him stop, unsling his pack, and pull a map. Oh, this was going to be easy.

Castiel stepped from hiding place to hiding place, gingerly traveling on angel's wings but careful not to disturb the silence of his surroundings. The demon was trying to count out paces to the vertex of ley lines. When he had closed to a mere twenty yards from his prey, Castiel gave up his game. He strode toward the demon, hands balled into fists at his sides, his coat whipping out behind him as he let his true self stretch. An aura of power disturbed the sand and dirt around him, and the night began to smell disconcertingly like cut grass. He walked like a thunderstorm and lifted a hand to gather might.

The demon poked at the map in his hand and looked up the road, muttering. Until he felt it. In comic slowness, his eyes swept up from the page and to his right. White fire flashed in his pupils, burning worse than brimstone, and he hit the ground hard.

He scrambled to his feet, only to lose the ground again as Castiel snatched him by the throat and held him high.

"You should not have come," the angel intoned with the chords of his true voice.

The demon smiled viciously through the pain, his eyes clouding black. He lifted both legs and struck out with a kick to the angel's chest. The force propelled him out of Castiel's hand and into a short tumble on the dirt. He came up crouching low.

With a look of annoyance, the angel brushed dirty shoe prints from his shirt. "You cannot win here."

It was not a threat, but a statement of fact.

The demon's eyes darted to the pack he'd been carrying, and Castiel followed his gaze. He readied a bolt of power in one hand and stood poised, muscles tensed like a cat. On loose limbs, the demon swayed back and forth in indecision. Then hurled a bit of power of his own.

For a brief second, Cas was blind in a spray of sand. But he saw motion.

He flicked his hand out, fingers wide, and bid the air convulse. It complied. The concussive force blew the demon and pack in opposite directions as a crack of cannon fire rolled over the desert. Castiel shielded his eyes from the blown sand and headed for the bag. He stepped, shivered on wings, and appeared beside it, sparing only a brief glance toward his foe. The demon was pushing himself up onto all fours at the base of a rock outcropping that bore a new dark stain.

The bag contained mostly standard hiking gear, which was promptly dropped to the dirt. Castiel dug around, unable to see clearly in the dark. He could feel something evil emanating, though, and searched.

He glanced up. The demon was on his feet.

He rifled faster, eventually touching a metal flask that pulsed with rancor and corruption. He snatched it and tossed the bag aside. His features twisted with distaste as he opened the cap and the stench of powerful demon blood wafted out. Copper, death, sulfur, and bitter pain-the physical manifestations of a creature far more powerful than the one he fought.

He lifted his eyes to his enemy. The beast shuffled forward on its host's broken body. Legs bent in wrong angles, and one arm hung useless and bleeding. It glared and snarled in hatred but stumbled closer. Physically bested, the demon drew on its own preternatural power and reached out its good hand, pulling at the flask with its mind.

Castiel's eyes narrowed. He glanced at the item in his hand, which trembled at the demon's call and strained at his fingers. But it held fast in his iron grip. With purposeful slowness, he turned the flask over and poured the blood into the dirt, far from the locus of the ley lines.

The demon shambled to a halt, panting with the effort of keeping its host upright. Sweat and blood trickled down its face and limbs.

Castiel glanced toward the pool of blood and then dropped the empty flask with contempt.

"I told you," he growled, stalking forward with a mountain lion's grace. "You cannot win here."

The aura around him grew, buffeting his enemy with a scalding holiness. The beast drew back on instinct and stumbled on a busted leg.

Castiel gestured, slapping the demon with enough force to knock it over. On one knee, he grabbed the demon's shirt to hold it still and slammed his hand onto its head for execution. The body was too badly broken for exorcism.

With a cry, the demon jerked. And despite the pain that burned up and down its bones, it laughed.

"Ina-ch wsss right 'bout y-tch--" The twisted voice struggled from the host's dying throat.

Castiel stopped and pulled the beast's face closer. "What did you say?"

It hissed. "Inanna, Inanna, Inanna..." chanting the name in the angel's face like a spell. Its voice drifted into a pained gurgle, though it smiled at the touch of one of Pandemonium's generals on its lips.

"Right about what?"

The demon spasmed, groaned, and sagged, and Cas shook him hard. "Answer me!" He had thunder and lightning in his tone.

A deep rumble in the demon's body became a laugh and a cough of blood. "Or what?"

The angel pressed his palm to the demon's head in a rolling motion that was measured and deliberate. "Or I will make this slow."

"Mmm," the demon twisted his lips and ran his tongue over them to lick off his own blood. He pressed up closer, as though to whisper. "You've spent all this time out here... watching cacti and dust." He chuckled brokenly and blood flecked on Castiel's cheek. The angel glared. "What _haven't_ you been watching? I wonder."

Then he dropped back, letting Cas take his full weight.

For a moment, Castiel paled. There was only one thing the demons would taunt him with, one person. Anger flashed hot and bright across his being.

"What is Inanna planning?"

The demon cracked an eye and grinned.

Castiel summoned heavenly fire into his hand and sent it coursing into the demon's soul. It stiffened and fought back a scream.

"Tell me." He pressed harder, his anger fueling the spell that gripped the demon's essence and squeezed.

It bucked, opening its mouth in a silent howl.

"Tell me!" White power in the glory of God erupted through the demon's host, as Castiel snarled his command.

At last the demon's voice broke through its anguish. It screamed: "No!" Even as its essence boiled in the heat of the blaze, flashing light through its weak human host.

Then all was silent.

Shaking slightly with rage, the angel eased the corpse down to the ground and stood. He couldn't--the orders had been clear--_Dean_. He turned in a slow circle and threaded a hand through his hair, an all too human gesture that alone would have been proof enough of his altered state. He caught himself and stopped, drawing his hand down to his side.

The anger, the fear, remained. He slanted a glance toward the human body that lay broken on the ground. The man, whoever he was, deserved a burial. Castiel drew a breath of calming night air to steady himself, dissipate the emotions that left him dizzy.

He dropped his head back and looked up toward the stars. No messages were written among them, but their presence was a balm. Humans should be able to deal with the hiker, he decided. He would have had a family. They would like to know of his death. There was a ranger station in Indian Cove where he could find a phone to get the authorities on their way.

Castiel turned and made his way to the body. He knelt by it again, this time with reverent care. A kiss on his own fingertips, then a touch of fingertips to an ashen forehead._ "__In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_." He put power and intention into his words, casting a field over the corpse. No creature would come near him during the night. It was the best he could do.

He pushed himself to standing and thought hard on his options. Anna would counsel him to think for himself. His brothers would counsel to win the war.

He turned toward Indian Cove and disappeared in a flap of wings and whipping coat.

  
XX

  
He was surprised to find the ranger station occupied when he arrived.

The ranger was significantly _more_ surprised at his arrival, since he had failed to knock, or even open the lone door.

"Jesus!" The ranger jumped, splashing himself with hot coffee. "Aww, fuckin'--"

"Someone is injured," Castiel told him.

The ranger glared down at the spill on his clothes and lifted his hands as though he'd stuck them in goo. "What?" he replied automatically, not paying any attention.

"I said," Castiel spoke more slowly and with annoyance. "Someone is injured."

This time the ranger seemed to hear meaning in his words. His head shot up and he paid the angel proper attention. "Where?"

"Below Cap Rock."

"Climber?" The man set aside his cup and reached for the keys on his desk and a flashlight.

"Perhaps."

"How bad?"

Castiel swept his gaze briefly to the floor and shifted uncomfortably. "Very."

"Shit." The ranger turned to round his desk to grab his coat. The lights flickered. "Didja see what-" he stopped abruptly. He was talking to an empty room. "What... the... hell..." he breathed. The station was small, and he could take in the whole room from where he was. He tossed on his coat and ran to the door, flinging it open. There was no one outside. He spun, looking back at his desk, and then peered back out into the night. "Ain't that some shit?"

He thought briefly about considering the whole thing a prank. But a ranger in the desert learns to follow his instincts. And instinct told him the grave man he'd seen was serious as a stroke. Eyes like that didn't lie. As he and his truck bounced along the desert trail out toward Cap Rock, he radioed in and told Marci she'd better get the feds on the line and send Hank out for more coffee.

  
XX

  
Nothing stirred when Castiel alighted in the Winchester's motel room in a quadrant of Idaho that even angels found dull. Sam snored softly, sprawled boneless on top of the covers. The angel gave him a considering, concerned look as he moved to the space between the beds. Dean was as he had left him in the dream: peaceful and quiet, though somewhat more clothed. He studied the man's face as he slept, the shape of his cheek, the lay of his eyelashes against his skin. An oddly sweet pain gripped in Castiel's chest, and he swallowed hard.

If Inanna was hatching some plan, then Inanna must be stopped. He gave no thought to the Apocalypse, to the Plan. Instead, he recalled the taste of Dean's skin slick with sweat and the sound of his voice thick with pleasure. A fierce, protective anger flared through him like righteous indignation, and the decision was made just that quickly. Not for glory and not for God.

Castiel bent, intending to place a quick kiss on Dean's cheek. But below him, Dean stirred, perhaps reacting to a close presence. He thought better of it, instead touching the man's face with fingertips as light as feathers. _"Ars gratia artis,"_ he murmured with wonder. And then he stood and turned to go.

Sam sighed in his sleep and rolled over, gathering himself into a ball. He shivered. Castiel watched for a moment and then directed his attention to the heating unit that was silent and dead along the wall. For the first time, he noted the late winter chill in the air. With a quick and kind glance toward the brothers, he walked to the heater and peered down at it, as though piercing the metal with his vision. He waved a hand slowly above the top of it and made his will manifest.

The machine clunked and hummed to life. And Castiel was gone.

  
XX

  
Finding a demon when you want one is more difficult than one would imagine. A bit like catching a cold. You can do everything right, get soaked, stay out in the cold, forget to drink your orange juice, but it won't happen unless it's meant to.

Castiel stopped briefly back at Cap Rock, not even coalescing in visible form, to be sure that the ranger had heeded his word. And then he winged his way to the closest center of population. He stepped into an alleyway some twenty miles away, as the crow flies, grains of dirt and gravel squelching under his feet. As he looked around, the corners of his mouth curled slightly in an ironic smirk. What better place to search for a demon than Cathedral City? The humor would certainly appeal.

But, without orders, without _guidance_, he couldn't be sure there would even be one in the vicinity. The world was vast.

Even so, the demon he'd killed at Cap Rock had come from somewhere. And he only needed one. Demons, like angels, spoke on silken threads spun on different planes.

Castiel raised his eyes to the stars in silent prayer, and then he stepped out onto the sidewalk and headed down a barely lit street. Fate may be haphazard, but never fickle. If God willed it, he would find his way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It helps to picture G as Justin Hartley.

Sam took the left side of the door and Dean took the right. They pressed against the stripped bare siding to keep out of sight from the windows and out of reach of the drizzling rain. It was still technically daylight out, though the storm made it hard to tell.

"So," Sam said in a hushed tone. "Bet's still on, right?" His dark eyes danced with anticipation as he smiled.

Dean smirked back and adjusted his grip on the crossbow in his hands. "Better believe it."

"A whole week, Dean."

The elder brother tried to hold back a full on smile. It was a simple bet: whoever kills more vampires, wins. _"When I win," Sam had declared, "you're cooking dinner for a week."_ That meant chili on the hot plate, spaghetti with hot dogs, and macaroni and cheese on rye. He'd have done it anyway, if Sam had asked. Gladly. But he didn't ask much of anything anymore. That Sammy needed to kill some vamps and win a bet in order to ask for a home cooked meal couldn't say something any kind of good. But he wanted to. That had to count.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled and tried to sound annoyed. "Jus' don't get your hopes up too high, Tanto. Vegas calls."

Sam snorted a laugh. "In your dreams."

"Damn straight." Dean smiled and lifted his eyebrows in a cocky, lewd gesture. It was the kind of response Sam would expect.

In truth, he had no intention of winning, and couldn't care less about Vegas.

Sam turned his eyes toward the door. He gave the bandolier across his chest a final check, touched the flashlight in his pocket for assurance, and reached toward the doorknob.

"Ready?" He grinned.

Dean stepped back and trained his weapon on the door. Ready? He could feel heat and adrenaline starting to uncoil. God, he hated vampires. Fast, nasty, and holy fuck pissed off most of the time. Ready? Bow in hand, machete strapped on, and Sam's newest invention clipped to his belt. He could feel his breath quicken and his focus come center. Ready.

He nodded once, and Sam threw open the door to the old house. Vampires of 1011 Walnut St, Wheatland, Wyoming: your party has arrived.

XX

  
 _Hunting vampires is almost nothing like it is on TV. Most of the lore out there is a bunch of claptrap. They don't change shape or turn into smoke. Garlic isn't any worse than a pound of limburger cheese. And God doesn't care one way or another about vampires, so despite the painfully satisfying image of burning a cross into some toothy bastard's chest, religious symbols don't do jack._

Vampires are disinclined to sunlight, corpse blood, and decapitation. Beyond that, they're stronger, faster, and have a killer set of teeth. They were supposed to be a dying breed thanks to the hunters. But hunters have become a dying breed, too.  
&lt;/div&gt;

Dean moved with swift, quiet steps toward the stairway that led to the upper two floors. The old mansion had been condemned, its windows boarded. No one much noticed a few additional patches from the inside to keep the sun out; except for the Winchesters. The building was patched to the attic, which meant the whole place was habitable, and that was a lot rooms.

Dean swung the crossbow and flashlight up toward the landing and then looked to Sam. "What do you think, up or down?" he whispered just loud enough to be heard.

Sam edged further into the house, checking for dust on the floor, footprints, signs of life. The door to the basement was open a crack, though he couldn't see much other than darkness.

"I don't know," he replied, just as quietly.

Dean shrugged, glancing up the stairway, and motioned with the bloody tip of the crossbow bolt. Dad had taught them that—dead man's blood on the arrowhead. Good trick. One that Dean remembered. Sam nodded his assent and moved to join him. For all his Bigfoot size, he could be a wraith when he wanted.

They took the stairs slowly, testing each step for creaks as they went. This had been a stupid plan. The closer they got to the top floor, the surer Dean got that vampires at dusk was as bonehead a plan as they'd ever pulled. He paused to listen, trying to pick out voice or footsteps.

"Tell me again why we didn't come for The Early Morning Show."

He felt Sam bump his elbow, leaning closer.

"Crossbows. Daylight. Busy street. Cops."

Dean pursed his lips. "Smaller crossbows, add it to the list."

"They make smaller crossbows?"

"Like pistols." Dean glanced over and saw a skeptical look outlined on his brother's face. "Like Green Arrow?" Same look. "Don't you watch television?"

For a moment Sam simply stared. "Right," he muttered, turning his attention back to the staircase. "I'll make a note." He fought down a grin. "Just like Green Arrow."

Dean scowled and started forward to test another step. It took longer than he would have liked to reach the third floor, and there was a distinct lack of vampire activity. Maybe they'd gotten there before breakfast and everyone was asleep. It'd be a solid bit a luck. The kind of luck Dean hadn't seen in a long-ass time. As they came to the top hallway, Dean swept left and Sam swept right. An empty corridor gaped back from both directions, bare wood floors looking weathered in the illumination of the flashlights.

"Now what?" Sam whispered, backing up enough that he could see his brother without taking his eyes off the hall.

Dean grunted and shrugged. "Start knocking on doors."

  
Dean's end of the hall had three rooms on the left and two on the right. He figured the safest bet was to start at the end and work toward the stairs. He'd know his back was covered; nothing to worry about but what he could see. Sam had positioned himself as sentry at the top of the stairs.

The sound of his breathing in his ears, Dean tossed in the last door on the left. He aimed high and low, sweeping the flashlight. Empty. Not even a bed. He exhaled and loosened some tension.

Then, from behind, he heard a handle turn.

_Shit._

"Hey!" An angry voice barked.

Heart pounding, Dean whirled, bringing the crossbow up and firing as soon as he saw a body outlined against the light of the open door. The bolt made a thud as it hit.

"Sonuvabitch!" The vampire lunged forward, swinging a fist in Dean's direction.

_C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!_

Dean dodged back into the empty room and dropped the bow, keeping the flashlight trained. He drew the machete and crouched automatically into a fighting stance. The vampire looked like a geek in his past life, tall, long stringy blond hair, a little on the thin side. He staggered as he tried to close in for another swing, and his own momentum brought him crashing to one knee. The dead man's blood was already spreading.

_Bingo._

"What..." The vampire stared down at the bolt shaft sticking out from his chest in confusion and then up at the light Dean aimed at his eyes.

"Today... is a very bad day to be you," Dean intoned. And then he drew back and swung for the neck.

As the body and head each toppled to the floor, Dean heard the low thud and cry of someone slamming into the wall in the hallway.

_Sammy._ "Dammit!" He darted from the room.

Two more vampires had emerged from their chambers, and they hovered over Sam, who was propped up against the wall where he'd fallen, not quite as buzzed as he was making it seem. The low yellow light from the open door made them visible, though not distinct.

"Sam!"

The vampires turned toward Dean's voice. And Sam lashed out. He aimed a kick at the male's kneecap and connected squarely. It gave with a crack, and the vamp fell back with a howl of pain. The woman bared a mouthful of tearing teeth; with one arm she lifted Sam from the floor by his throat. She slammed him against the wall, and he let out a short yelp of pain.

Dean charged as soon as he saw Sam's kick land. The male, a stocky black dude, hit the opposing wall, and Dean was on him, cutting a deep gash in his arm, just to get his attention. Shocked by the unexpected explosion of pain, the vampire made a clumsy lunge, expecting his leg to take his weight. He gasped at the agony as Dean danced out of reach. His leg gave out beneath him, and he landed heavily on his hands, splayed out on all fours for the executioner. Dean swung the machete like he was chopping wood. Blood splattered on his face and poured out over his shoes. He wiped as much as he could from his face with panicked urgency. If so much as a drop passed his lips...

The female screamed for her dead mate.

And the next thing Dean saw was Sam hurtling through the air toward the far end of the hall. He heard him hit, and then nothing. Silence was not good. Silence was incredibly uninformative. Dean flicked the flashlight trying to get a beam to land on his brother so he could see, but the vampire stalking his way cast shadows right where he didn't need them.

If he moved, he'd stumble on the dead body or slide in the blood. If he didn't, the bitch would be on him in a heartbeat.

Dean gripped the knife hard and aimed the flashlight for her eyes.

_Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, you'd better be all right,_ he thought.

It was a moment's distraction on his part, but enough of one. The vampire drove toward his left side and landed a punch to the gut that doubled him over. The air rushed from his lungs, and he couldn't move but to try to gasp. Her next hit came to the face. Dean spun and flew back, both feet briefly losing the floor. He and the floor reconnected face first. His skull cracked against the hard surface, and for a moment all he could see were colors. Pain throbbed through his cheek and jaw and lanced into his side like a spike. Had to get up. Had to move. As he pushed himself up, he spit blood.

"I don't think we were done," Sam's low voice growled from the far end of the hall. He tossed a machete in one hand.

The vampire spun, and her eyes narrowed. Hatred beat against her brain, and she started for him, nothing but rage and whipping hair.

Dean scrambled back to the first room, where he'd left the crossbow. He slid in the pool of blood and ended up on his knees, grappling for the bow's cocking mechanism and then loading another bolt. At a run, he slid back out into the hall, crossbow raised and flashlight searching. He could make out two forms fighting, and the light caught the yellow of her shirt, then the brown of Sam's coat. Sam grunted as his back hit the wall and then rolled away from a body blow.

Dean cursed as they circled, Sam's body blocking any good shots. He stood on edge, just vaguely not running in to join the fight.

Sam faked with the knife and then brought the flashlight slamming into the woman's head. Any vampire could shake off the tiny bit of pain, but it broke her concentration. He got in a good kick to the stomach to send her back against the wall and then swung the machete hard, skinning his knuckles on the wood as he made sure the cut went through.

Dean lowered the crossbow, and his brother looked over at him, panting.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Been better," Sam huffed and straightened, wincing as he stretched his back. "You?" He aimed his flashlight his brother's way. A mass of teeth. His heart froze. "Dean!"

That cry of panic was one Dean knew well. His body moved without thought, turning, and raising his weapon in self-defense. He wasn't going to be fast enough. All he had time to think was _Shit, no!_

The Winchester's flashlights both exploded.

A streak of blue fire arced across the vampire's neck.

And Dean heard the wet fleshy knock of a head hitting the floor. It rolled into the door on the right that had opened behind him.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was all concern and terror.

"Here, Sam," Dean breathed. But he barely paid attention.

The light at the far end of the hall had gone out with the flashlights. There was only the poor illumination from the fluorescent bulb in the room at his side and the darkness beyond, where a thin dull line of impossible fire rippled up and down a sword, casting a faint blue glow.

Something moved. Every hair on Dean's body stood on end. From nowhere, like an ocean wave, terror crashed over him in goose bumps, and he instinctively drew back, leveling the crossbow at whatever it might be. An aura of power, of might and terrible energy filled the hallway; it bowed out the walls.

Dean swallowed hard against the urge to run. The thing in the darkness moved, and he backed up again, bumping into his brother. Sam was at his shoulder, hand clenching and unclenching as he dipped into the demon power at his command.

The thing and the sword moved into the light.

A blood red cloak hung straight and perfect from the man's broad shoulders down to his sandaled feet. Golden armor shone warmly in the yellow light. He was tall, like Sam, and had a similar build. His eyes were dark, nearly black, and deep against white skin. High cheek bones and a square jaw gave him the look of a prince. And, Dean noted, kind of a surfer, especially given the blond spiky hair.

“A Centurion?” Sam muttered, actually managing to sound surprised.

Dean's eyes narrowed, and he lifted the crossbow just a little more.

The man looked at him steadily. "You're Dean Winchester?" he asked in a warm tenor.

"Depends, Spartacus, who's asking?"

The Centurion offered a ghost of a grin. "I'm Gabriel."

"Gabriel," Dean scoffed. "As in"—he glanced at the fiery sword in the man's hand—"as in, _Gabriel_?"

"The archangel," Sam breathed, the power he was gathering going slack.

Gabriel grinned faintly. "Yes."

Dean's heart beat a rapid rhythm against his ribs, and he let the crossbow drift. "So, what, you hunt vampires these days?"

The angel glanced down at the creature he had beheaded. "No. I was looking for you."

Both brothers stiffened, and Dean aimed for Gabriel's chest. "Why?"

Gabriel let his gaze shift to the point of the crossbow and then to Dean. He locked eyes, and it was like looking at the night sky. Impossibly deep, speaking of promise and wonder and worlds beyond human knowing. Sadness like an ocean rose within their depths.

"Castiel is gone," he said.

Dean's strength vanished in a cold shiver. "What?" His voice was small, stunned. He couldn't—that didn't make any—

Sam stared at his brother, who wavered in place, and then looked at Gabriel. "What do you mean gone? Like, you lost him?"

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "He's not a horse that I can't find, Sam Winchester. We didn't _misplace_ him; he is gone. Missing. He was given no orders, and he doesn't answer our call. I fear..." He trailed off, unwilling to give voice to such thoughts.

_Missing._ Dean sucked in a breath so full of relief it nearly made his eyes tear. _Not dead._

"So—" Dean coughed to clear the tightness from his throat and ignored quizzical looks. "So, what, God's sending out a search party?"

The archangel pressed his lips into a fine line. "No."

"What do you mean 'no'?" Indignation flared in Dean's chest. "My angel's missing and God doesn't think that's important?"

"God has bigger things to worry about than one angel."

"So then what're you here for?"

Gabriel hesitated. "Because he's my brother. I will find him, even if I must do it alone. But... I came to ask for your help," the archangel admitted. "He speaks of you often."

Dean stared in wonder. An angel... _asking_ for help? _Humble?_ He studied Gabriel's face, lined and creased with worry. _Castiel, missing?_ Why hadn't he known? He should have known something was wrong. You were supposed to _know._

"Dean." Gabriel spoke his name, drawing back his attention.

"Yeah... Yeah, course we'll help. It's just..." He motioned at the blood and vampire corpses scattered around them. "We're kinda in the middle of something here."

Gabriel frowned. "This is my little brother's life..." He stepped closer, and the brothers fell back.

"Look, we get that," Sam said in his best placating voice. Puppy eyes sought the archangel's glare. "But these vampires will have our scent now. If we don't kill them all, they'll follow us, here, after Castiel, wherever we go."

After a moment of searching Sam's face, Gabriel's shoulders slumped, an elegantly slow gesture. To Dean, "Is this true?"

"Kinda is," he said it as an apology.

The archangel sighed, looking forlorn, then nodded. "Fine. Then let's be quick."

He started toward them without thinking, and the humans gasped at the storm of his presence, a burning in their bones that shot lightning. Wide-eyed they rocked back, only staying rooted by force of their training and experience with the awesomely terrible. Their hearts raced like running.

"Dude," Dean managed without much trembling, "you're at an eleven. Dial it back."

Gabriel halted and looked his new companions up and down, as though noting for the first time how they stood together in a defensive pack, just this fragile flesh. He drew a breath and closed his eyes in concentration.

Sam and Dean released held breaths as the sense of danger and weight of air receded.

"Better?" Gabriel asked, looking between them.

Dean shrugged into his jacket, flexed to get comfortable. "Thanks."

The archangel inclined his head and grinned with a warmth that went to his eyes. "Sorry. I forget sometimes that humans are so..." He gestured airily.

"Small?" Sam offered.

Gabriel gave him a sad look. "Sensitive."

"Yeah, that's us. Bleeding hearts." Dean turned dismissively and motioned toward the stairs. "If we're gonna do this, let's do it. Second verse same as the first."

  
Dean was on point, bow drawn. Then Sam, with the machete. And last Gabriel, who held his burning gladius high, to cast a blue glow through the darkened hall. The sword was made in the old Roman style, with a blade that swelled and tapered like woman and an elm leaf. It was as finely crafted as its owner, a thing of beauty. The flames that engulfed it from hilt to tip danced merrily, skating over its form and licking the air with blue and white tongues that reached higher at the angel's command. The illumination gave Gabriel an alien look and sent shadows skittering into corners only to be chased out again.

Sam glanced over his shoulder. "So... vampires," he whispered.

"Yes?" Gabriel answered in a hush, keeping his eyes on their surroundings.

"How much do you know?"

Gabriel lifted his sword to give Dean more light. "Nothing."

"Right"—Sam stopped as Dean paused to scan the second floor hallway—"well, decapitation is the only way to kill them."

Gabriel made a pleased sound. "I chose wisely."

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. But there's one other thing." He reached to the bandolier on his chest and slipped out a thin tube. He turned and held it out.

Gabriel took the offering with interest, barely grazing Sam's hand as he did so.

"It's an Epipen," Sam went on, glancing at his hand. "We filled them with corpse blood. It's like poison for vampires. Jab it, and it auto-injects."

Gabriel turned the pen over in his hand, rolling it with dexterous fingers. A grin spread across his perfect face. "That's very clever, Sam," he said as he handed it back.

With a crestfallen frown, Sam took the pen. "You can have—"

"I won't need it," Gabriel assured him. He motioned with his head, and Sam turned to see Dean waiting.

Their formation changed with silent understanding as they moved down the second floor hallway. Gabriel and Sam stood shoulder to shoulder behind Dean. The light from the sword granted an eerie life to every uneven chip of floorboard.

The attack happened like a gun shot.

A blur burst from a bedroom and slammed into Dean. And both bodies hurtled into the wall. Dean felt both impacts at nearly the same time. He struck out with the crossbow in the direction of hot breath and roaring. It impacted, and he thought maybe he caught it in the head. Heart beating furiously, he pressed the bow between himself and his attacker, survival the only thought he could form.

The vampire dove for his neck.

And a blue line of fire sliced across its neck in the darkness. The head bumped Dean's leg as it rolled to the floor. The body gushed hot blood everywhere.

With a sharp shove and a kick, Dean thrust the corpse away. He lurched to his feet, faced twisted, and dabbed a finger at his shirt. "Aww, now... This is just gross," he whined. The blood glued his shirt to his skin, and he could feel it seeping down through his jeans and boxers, wet and warm. The jacket might be toast, too. He couldn't tell, but he wiped the sleeve across his face to clear off any drops.

Sam's face was lit with devilish humor and dark shadows in the ambient light. He choked down a laugh as Dean glared.

The elder brother slid his gaze to Gabriel, expression softening. "You're pretty good with that thing."

The archangel shrugged and smirked. "We've been together a long time."

Dean arched an eyebrow as he picked up the crossbow, wondering what a long time was in angel years. He shifted uncomfortably and kept giving his clothes a disgusted look as they searched the remaining rooms, some of which had been made into makeshift bedrooms, but none of which had any occupants.

In silence, they moved as a unit back to the main floor—the brothers reading each other's movements from familiarity, Gabriel from an untold history in the art of war.

"Basement?" Dean asked Sam over his shoulder.

"It's all that's left."

The Winchesters both looked at Gabriel. He returned their questing looks with puzzlement. "I will follow," he offered, unsure what they expected. Argument perhaps?

Sam edged closer to his brother and whispered to him. "You know, maybe Gabriel should go first."

Dean looked scandalized. "You sayin' we can't handle this?"

"No! Just..." Sam shrugged and motioned in the angel's general direction. "Wouldn't it make sense?"

Dean glanced his brother up and down, a scouring and evaluative look, and then leaned to get a good look at their newest angel, all cloak and armor and right out of _Gladiator_. Something fluttered in his stomach that made him scowl.

"We're fine," he growled. "Let's just do this and go."

Sam slumped, but he nodded and fell into step behind Dean as they pushed open the door to the basement and started down.

The stench. Holy hell, the _reek_! Dean grimaced, grunted, and pressed his forearm to his mouth and nose.

"Jeez," Sam bit, following suit.

Decaying flesh and wet rot hit hammer hard. Dean's stomach turned a little more with each step. The high acidic smell stabbed an ice pick in his brain; the odorous broad blackness that thickened the air tasted like roadkill. As Dean reached the bottom of the stairs, the lights suddenly flared on. He whipped around and spotted Gabriel at the top of the stairs, his finger still resting on the switch.

"Turn that off!" Dean hissed.

Gabriel looked offended. "You cannot fight if you cannot see." He descended into the basement like a flowing river and came to meet Dean's angry glare.

"They'll know we're here."

"They would know it anyway," the archangel replied evenly.

Dean opened his mouth to reply, drawing a breath, then shut it as he gagged. "You are not stealthy," he muttered through tight lips.

Gabriel smirked and lifted his sword to point at the door embedded in the concrete wall of the basement. Dean followed the motion, turning. He cast the archangel a withering look.

"Bossy."

"Guys." Sam sounded distant. He was turning in a slow circle, taking in the small room. His eyes grew wider and brow furrowed deeper as he went. His mouth was drawn into a grimace.

The room was a cell, really. A dungeon, with manacles bolted to the walls and bloated purple corpses descending into ooze where they lay.

Sam clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Jesus," Dean breathed. "Wouldn't they keep 'em alive?"

Sam shrugged and shook his head in dismay. "Maybe they don't know how," he said in a small voice hidden behind his hand.

Dean swallowed down rising bile and cast his companions a look before turning for the door. People didn't deserve to go out like that, to be _left_. It burned in his chest and swirled into a fury that had him charging into the room with reckless anger.

Nine vampires looked up from their meals and snarled. As Dean strafed left, loosing a bolt at the nearest foe, Sam strafed right, brandishing his machete and gripping a pen. Gabriel strode in and stood just in the doorway, menace and power written in the way he planted his feet. For a second, the vampires exchanged uncertain looks. The humans smelled tasty, but this, _this_ was new. As a pack, they surged forward.

Gabriel's cloak whipped about him as he spun, slashed, and shed enemy blood with the long and perfect strokes of a dancer. He knew death, touched her face, and left her wanton. He pleased her with the shape of his motion and made her eyes flash as he sought and found the right spot every time, not wasting himself on flourish. Fingers and hands rained as furious, horrified cries filled the air.

As the angel danced of death, Dean dropped to one knee to reload. The vamp he'd shot came at him, and he glanced up, gauged, and dropped the bow. He unsheathed his machete as he stood and raised it to parry a punch. The blade dug deep in the vampire's arm, and Dean's pressed and cut as he drew back, opening as wide a wound as he could.

If vamps registered pain, he couldn't tell, because this one kept right on coming. Dean's momentum carried him back two steps, shifting his weight away from his sword arm. A weak position. The vampire made a grab for his wrist and connected. Then he swung with his free hand, and Dean caught his fist, putting his full weight into it. With teeth down and gnashing, the vampire roared in Dean's face, his breath stinking of blood, and pressed down with his superior strength. Dean's arms started to bend. He grit his teeth and roared back, hoping, hoping the dead man's blood would kick in.

With all the pressure forcing his right arm toward his face, Dean switched strategies. He couldn't win on brute force, alone. Instead of breaking, he bent. He jerked his arm, pulling his enemy close and setting them in a spin. It gave him a moment's control and a second where the vampire's momentum worked against him. The creature lost his grip and recovered more slowly than he should have, turning too late.

Dean's boot slammed into his side. It should have felt like nothing. It felt like his whole body had emptied, and the vampire doubled over uncontrollably, falling to his knees.

_Bout time_, Dean thought. Breathing heavily, he swung his machete like a baseball bat.

Sam slammed into the wall for the third time, his head cracking on the concrete. A groan of pain escaped him as he bounced forward and regained his balance. His grip on the Epipen tightened, and he shoved himself from the wall to circle his opponent. Everything paled as his focus sharpened. The enraged cries of wounded vampires were whispers, elevator music. He saw his enemy's eyes reflect gold and the way the man's body tensed when he was about to move.

Sam had the advantage of size and a longer reach. He jabbed the knife out, prodding, taunting. The vampire dodged, twisting his body out of the way. Just as it should be.

Sam's legs tensed and coiled. He could see it, his attack perfectly executed, each step landing just so. Like an Arabian warrior, he whipped the knife high in a circle, in a dramatic, pointless show. Then he rushed, swinging in a wide, easily dodged arc. He sprang left, following the vampire's dodge, and charged. Twisting, he jabbed the pen in his foe's arm and kept moving, back stepping until they had pulled a 180.

The vampire scoffed and checked his arm, where some human bee thought to sting him. He gave Sam a wicked smile and advanced, trying to crowd him into a corner.

"Does it hurt yet?" Sam rotated his wrist, swinging the blade. He could feel the space around him, where the walls were, where the rest of the carnage was. He kept himself in the open, calm and determined, waiting. He smiled slowly.

"I'll show you... h-hurt." The vampire's anger bled out into confusion and then shock. He shook himself and staggered from it. "Wh..." His jaw quivered involuntarily as his legs turned to jelly that could no longer support him.

Sam's eyes narrowed in triumph. He drew himself up and closed the short space between them. With a cold expression and a slight sneer, he cut off the vampire's head in one stroke.

The room fell into a sudden silence.

Gabriel stood in nearly the same place as when he had entered, framed by the yellow light from the dungeon outside that made him nearly glow with a golden halo. Blood stained his face as though it had been painted there with meticulous design. He surveyed the destruction quietly, lifting his eyes as the Winchesters came closer, heaving heavy breaths full of terrible excitement. They peered down at the floor around him with a stunned awe.

Dean looked up at him first. "Seven?"

The archangel opened his mouth to speak, but Sam cut him off.

"Seven by yourself?" He looked at Gabriel in innocent admiration. "Dude, are you for rent?"

Gabriel laughed. It was only a chuckle, but it spoke of humility and pride in equal measure.

Dean swept the room with a calculating gaze as he went back to get the crossbow. Three people had been made meals. Their blood dripped from the tables to mingle with the vampire gore. The sight did nothing to him anymore; just settled like sadness on his shoulders.

Wearily, "We should do someth—"

"Dean." Sam said his name in that way that always preceded bad news.

Dean cocked his head and met his brother's worried look. "What?" Like he wanted to know.

"There were fourteen, yesterday. When we counted."

"So?" Definitely didn't want to know.

Sam scrunched his nose. "We're missing one."

"Course we are."

"I think it's the leader."

"Course it is," Dean replied flatly. He sighed and slung the bow over his back by its strap. The motion pulled on his shirt, cold and hardening with blood. He picked at it with a curled lip. To Sam's lifted eyebrows he said, "Outta ammo," and then pulled one of the pens of dead man's blood from his belt with resignation.

Gabriel watched them with detached calm. "If it would be easier, I could j—" Of a sudden, Gabriel staggered, thrown forward by an unexpected impact. A mass of blue hair bubbled over his shoulder and arms grappled around his chest. Before any of them could react, his jaw dropped wide in shock as vampire teeth sank into his neck.

"Gabriel!" The brothers shouted together.

The archangel's sword hand opened, and he willed the blade to disappear into the air. He gripped the arms around his throat tightly and spun, presenting his unit with the target he could not reach. As one, Sam and Dean dove, each jabbing a pen in the vampire woman's neck.

She clung for a second, hands scratching at Gabriel's tunic and cloak, teeth ripping deep and sucking hard. But the veins carried the poison swiftly. Her animal's teeth retracted from the angel's skin, and she slipped to the floor like dropped cloth.

Sam took her head without hesitation. Three and three. He absently wondered if that meant homecooked meals _and_ Vegas. "It's a tie," he said to his brother.

Dean didn't reply. He was watching Gabriel touch the wound on his neck delicately and then peer at the blood.

"Does it hurt?"

Gabriel glanced at him. "I'm not sure." The angel rotated his shoulder near the wound, and Dean watched in fascination as the torn flesh wove itself back together. A smear of blood was all that was left. Gabriel caught him staring, and Dean ducked his head slightly, averting his eyes.

"So," he said gruffly. "Think we're done?"

Sam looked around with a pinched expression. "I think I don't want to be here when the cops show up."

"Amen to that."

  
XX

  
By the time they emerged back into the open air, the rain had stopped. Gabriel marched for the Impala as though it were familiar for his feet to carry him to its doors. His cloak blew out behind him like a flag. Dean almost forgot to register that as weird.

"Hey, uh, Gabriel!" Dean called after him.

The angel pivoted.

"Don't you think maybe"—Dean slowed to a stop in front of him and gestured—"the Julius Caesar thing is a bit much? I mean, if it was Halloween, that's one thing, but..." He gave the cloak and armor a look of mild disapproval.

Gabriel's dark eyes bored into Dean's for a moment, and then his gaze fell to his attire. He stared, brow furrowed.

He stared for an uncomfortably long time.

Sam shifted.

Dean gave his brother an unsure look, flexing his jaw. "I think I broke him," he said quietly.

Sam looked between the two of them with growing concern. It was stretching to a minute of stock still silence, and he couldn't take the tension. He edged forward and reached out a hand, just intending to nudge the angel from his coma. As his fingers passed into Gabriel's vision, the angel lifted his head and sucked a breath.

"I've never tried to change the Legatus before."

Sam snatched his hand back.

"Your what?" Dean asked.

Gabriel motioned to his clothes. "The armor, it's..." He rolled his eyes toward the stars and back down, sinking into Dean with his gaze. "This body is Earthly, but the Legatus is... a metaphor, a symbol." He searched, trying to will his knowing straight into Dean's understanding. "It's different," he said lamely. "But I think it can be done. I'll be right back."

Gabriel vanished on a shiver of wings, startling the humans in a way they would never get used to.

The brothers exchanged questioning looks and jumped at a sudden voice from behind.

"How's this?"

They turned.

Gabriel spread his arms wide. He wore a black motorcycle jacket with an undone buckle at the neck over a white T-shirt and black jeans. Even with the poor illumination from an overhead streetlight, it was easy to see how closely the clothes clung. For the second time, Dean found himself staring and flinched in fear. He was _not_ developing a thing for angels. Not. _Dammit, Cas._

"Looks great," Dean said curtly. "Still got blood on your face, though. C'mon."

They all had blood on their faces. Dean opened the trunk of the car so they could stash the weapons and dug around for some rags and a bottle of holy water. He and Sam scrubbed off the most obvious blood smears, and then he offered a rag to Gabriel.

"You look like you've been killing people."

Gabriel took the rag and slowly wiped the blood from his face and neck as the Winchesters had done. "I _have _been killing people." He gave himself a final rough scrub and handed the reddened rag back.

Dean just shook his head lightly and threw everything back in the trunk. Cause what was there to say? Angels.

"Let's go."

Thoughts of Castiel kept Dean quiet on the drive back to the motel. Memories, like a secret picture book, flipped before his mind's eye. Dread swelled in his guts, dragging him further and further from calm and peaceful shores, and by the time they arrived, wild feathers of panic scattered with every quickened heartbeat.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam entered the motel room with a Burger King bag under one arm and a four-pack of La Voie microbrew dangling from his hand. Gabriel was perched on the end of one of the beds, much as he had left him, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress lightly for balance. He looked casual yet contemplative, staring down at his shoes. So far, the angels he'd met had been about as useful as a pack of tone deaf piano tuners, only more dangerous.

Gabriel seemed different. Maybe it was the way he sat in stillness. Or how he'd spent more collective time around them in one night than all their previous angel encounters put together and hadn't yet announced that one or both Winchesters were going to die. That in itself was a welcome change.

Sam kicked the motel room door closed.

There was the sound of running water in the background. A thin strip of steam escaped from under the bathroom door. Dean was still showering, then. He had declared it the first order of business as soon as they got back. The jacket could be saved. His shirt went in the trash. He'd grumbled something about needing to hit up Target.

The archangel had settled himself on the bed, content to observe. He did not ask to go along when Sam announced he was going out. Sam hadn't thought to ask.

Now he felt Gabriel's attentive gaze on his back as he unpacked greasy fast food and popped a beer. Both felt a bit unclean, but he was hungry, and his back ached as it formed bruises. Still, he couldn't help but check, just once, to see if the angel was having an opinion on his food choices. Gabriel's mouth lifted briefly in an automatic grin, and Sam replied in kind. It was weird how human he seemed. The others... talked like people, mostly. But the little things were wrong. Like they were trying to do a dance they'd only ever seen on TV.

Sam left Dean's food wrapped in the bag on the motel standard desk and folded himself into one of the wooden chairs that faced the beds. He cradled chicken fries and french fries in one hand and apple fries in the other.

"You forgot your beer," Gabriel observed after a minute of watching him.

"Not enough hands," was Sam's sheepish reply. He set the apples on his lap and plucked out a piece of chicken.

The archangel watched him wordlessly for a moment and then surged to his feet with a lion's proud grace. He stepped toward the desk and then returned with Sam's open bottle in his hand. He handed it over and then sat back on the bed, resuming his pose as though he had never moved.

Sam snapped his dumbfounded jaw shut and stared. Since when did he rate random acts of Heavenly kindness? "Uh. Thanks." He grinned in awkward amusement and took a sip. There was no place to put the bottle but the floor, so that's where it went.

Gabriel gave him a kind look and then resumed the study of his footwear.

Sam munched a few fries, trying not to feel a knot of unease in his chest. Sometimes silences were easy, like the passing of the Kansas countryside set to good music. Sometimes they screamed with an agony that pierced the skin, that hurt all the more precisely because there was no easy wound to sew closed. They could even be fun, like watching cloud animals, or like the first time you slip your hand into someone else's at the movies and she squeezes just a little.

Gabriel's silence was the slow darkening of the sky over the mountains.

What did you talk about with angels? Sam ate a chicken fry. Did they chat? He wondered if Dean and Cas chatted. And if so, what about?

Sam looked at Gabriel and screwed up the courage to say _something_ before the silence ate him alive. "So, um, how long have you had this vessel?"

The archangel lifted his head, and Sam felt a flush of embarrassment. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"A long time." Gabriel leaned forward slightly and drew his hands together so he could see them, the muscle and flexing tendon of them. "He was a nephew of one of Octavian's wives. The son of Marcus Livius Drusus."

Sam's jaw stopped. Octavian? _The_ Octavian? "Wait,"--he hurriedly chewed and swallowed--"you're telling me your body is two thousand years old? How is that even possible?" Sam leaned closer with wide eyes.

Gabriel looked up from his hands, amused at Sam's interest. "Vessels become much more once we take them. They can survive injury, heat, cold. They travel different planes."

"So they never grow old?"

Gabriel shook his head. "It's a blessing," he said solemnly. "Finding a vessel that will house an archangel is... rare. I was fortunate. And I find him... comfortable."

Sam sat back in wonderment. "So, did he ask for this?"

The archangel's amusement dissipated. He looked Sam in the eyes briefly, and then elsewhere. "In a manner."

His clipped tone told a whole story, and Sam suddenly understood a bit more than he thought he wanted to about the justice and mercy of angels. Unnerved, he sank a little in his chair. "Oh." And then started on dinner again to keep himself from asking anything else.

The running water in the bathroom stopped, and eventually Dean emerged fully clothed, toweling off his head.

"Hey," Sam said over a mouthful of fries. "Gotcha something." He pointed.

Dean rubbed at his scalp a little more and then tossed the towel back in the bathroom with a heap of others. His attention fell to the grease-stained bag on the desk. Double-whopper, no tomato. Side of onion rings. Always was. He padded over and stared down at it. It smelled the same as always, faintly of fried and the scent of meat, but held no allure. The thought of opening the wrapper and taking a bite didn't make him feel queasy. Didn't make him feel hungry. Didn't make him feel much of anything--like it could have been a bag of sand. He simply didn't want it and didn't feel much like putting forth the effort to pretend otherwise.

"Nah, I'm good. You can have it," he said, turning away so he wouldn't have to witness Sam's disappointment.

Dean felt their eyes on him as he crossed to the side table and gathered his things: watch, ring, necklace. He put each on methodically, as though there was something of power in this ritual--each item a bit of armor, a bit of self he had chosen on his own to gird himself against the world. They were still watching as he knotted his shoelaces. He fought back the urge to say something snide.

"So," he said to Gabriel, getting up to get himself one of Sam's froofy microbrews, "tell us what you know."

The archangel interlaced his fingers and sighed. "I know very little. Castiel had orders to guard a vertex of ley lines in the Mojave Desert. It would break a seal should the lines be corrupted, infest vast expanses of land with famine and pestilence."

"And?" Dean tipped back the bottle and looked both surprised and pleased at the flavor.

"And... as far as the garrison is concerned, that it where he should still be."

Dean imagined Castiel standing under the hot sun in his suit and coat, baking and staring miserably at a cactus. If that'd been his assignment, he'd have run off like his shoes were on fire. Screw that. But Cas wouldn't have. He'd have stayed until they told him to fly the coup, and then he'd have asked how high.

"How'd you know something happened?" Sam asked, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

"We talk."

"Angel radio?" Dean asked him.

The archangel graced him with a look of amusement. "I guess you could call it that. Only he didn't answer. I was busy, so I attended my duties and didn't think about it again. But he didn't answer the next day either, and that was strange. I went to the desert to see if he was there, and there was nothing. The seal was unprotected, though also unbroken."

"And no one knows anything."

Gabriel shook his head gravely. "I thought you might." He settled his gaze of starry nights on Dean.

The intensity slid in like pain, but Dean couldn't look away.

"Do you know when you saw my brother last?" the angel asked.

"Tuesday night," Dean answered immediately and then tensed with the fear that he had answered too quickly, that that night sat _too_ near the tip of his tongue for safekeeping.

"He was here?" Sam sounded alarmed. There was something mighty creepy about being stalked while you slept.

Gabriel perked. "What did he say?"

_Shit._ Dean shrugged and turned away, taking a swig of beer. "I dunno. Nothing. Nothing about going anywhere." He thought hard, trying to remember if that was really true. He'd been drowsy toward the end. Cas had told him to sleep, he remembered that. But there was something else. Something murmured. He knew because he'd felt the rumble of Castiel's voice before a press of lips on his hairline.

"It was a dream visit. I don't"--he rubbed his forehead--"I don't really remember."

He sighed and glanced over. Gabriel was staring at him.

"What?"

"He walks your dreams?" the angel asked with breathy astonishment.

Dean shifted and frowned. "Yeah. Why?"

"That..." The archangel paused to search for his words. "It's very... uncommon... for us to do without direct orders." He looked Dean up and down, scanning like he was reading a page. When their eyes met, Dean recoiled from the scrutiny and looked away.

"Yeah, well, that's what he does."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"How should I know! Just does." He sucked down a mouthful of beer.

Gabriel rose slowly to his feet. "And this last one. You don't remember it clearly?"

Dean shrugged.

"I could look."

"'Scuse me?" Dean set down the beer bottle and felt himself slipping into a defensive stance.

"Into the dream, in your memory. I could look and help you remember." The angel took a step closer, noting the set of Dean's body but unperturbed.

Fear flared high, followed quickly by an irrational anger that boiled with shame. "Like hell, you will!" he replied, voice raised.

"Dean!" Sam hopped up, confused by the quick flip of emotion and defensive.

"No! No way. Nobody's messing with my head." _Seeing what I've done._

Gabriel was incongruously calm in the face of the outburst. "I wouldn't... mess... with any--"

"I said no! I am _not_ your science experiment!" Feeling suddenly cornered, Dean pushed past the both of them roughly and grabbed his coat. "You are not poking around in my brain. You mind meld with somebody else."

"Dean, he just wants to look!"

"Shut up, Sam. You don't--" Dean cut himself off and threw open the door before he put even more cards on the table. He slammed it shut behind him. Gabriel and Sam looked at each other in stunned silence in his absence.

Sam sighed heavily. "I... I'm sorry. I'll go try to talk to him. I don't--"

"No." The angel's voice was firm. "Let me," he said with hint of calculating curiosity and a hand on Sam's shoulder.

Doubt filled Sam's dark eyes, but he but motioned toward the door. Who was he to argue with an angel of the Lord? More to the point, had there ever yet been any point in trying?

  
XX

  
_Stupid angel_, Dean cursed. He paced back and forth beside his car, raking a hand through his still damp hair. He shouldn't have said. He just--he shouldn't have said. He kept walking, turning, walking. Something fluttered in his peripheral vision, and he jolted to a halt, turning. A great gray owl blinked at him from the Impala's roof. It was enormous and the color of ashes. It shook its round head. Soundlessly, a snowy owl joined him, flashing white against the night. Then a boreal, with mottled feathers. They blinked their yellow eyes in unison and snapped their beaks, staring at him.

Dean felt a wave of power touch his back and raise goose flesh on his arms. He wasn't surprised to see Gabriel standing there when he turned around. The archangel had his hands dug into his pockets. Non-threatening. Non-confrontational. Yet he speared Dean in place with a look. A drilling contemplation that made it difficult to breathe.

At length, he blinked, turned his thoughts inward, and pressed his lips together. For a moment, there the only sound was the light scratching of talons on the Impala's metal roof. Dean gave Huey, Dewey, and Louie a look, and they stared back with the archangel’s same intensity and yellow eyes he didn’t care to meet. Then Gabriel spoke.

"Do you love my brother, Dean?"

Dean startled and leaned back against the car. His mouth formed the ghost of words that found purchase in neither truth nor air.

"You told me more than you thought when you said he walks your dreams," Gabriel admitted, the corners of his mouth turning up just a touch. He did not mention the shift of intensity in Dean's soul.

Dean's breath came high and quick as he stepped from denial to fear to confusion. Did he love him? "I don't--" He squeezed his eyes shut and angled away, constricting inward. "I dunno... maybe," he spoke it like confession. Being in love wasn't supposed to be something you were guilty of. But it wasn't supposed to hurt people either.

"Then help me."

Let me see you surrender who you are, he might have said. Dean sniffed to collect himself and looked up. "You could do it anyway, couldn't you? Tap my head and rip it out of me." He crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

The archangel's gaze was steady. "Yes."

"So why don't you."

"Because I have faith that I won't need to."

Dean snorted a humorless, nervous laugh. "And if you didn't? Have faith?"

Gabriel grinned slightly and rocked back on his heels. "I'm an archangel. I would hit the ground very, _very_ hard."

It took a beat, but Dean chuckled at that. The owls over his shoulder hopped and fluttered their wings. Dean scratched lightly at his forehead, his caution abating. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased. He shifted his weight. "So... if I'm gonna do this, what do I have to do?"

The angel smiled. "Not much. Just try to remember as best you can. I'll do the rest."

  
Dean closed his eyes and felt Gabriel's fingertips on his forehead. There was a moment like nausea and spinning, then like sinking into black cotton. He thought of Cas. Thought of wrapping his arms around him and pressing his face into his shoulder. And the light that bled from his skin as he came. He saw for the hundredth time the way Castiel unfurled his limbs as he rolled him on his back in a physical expression of grace. Dean recalled lying in the crook of his angel's arm, getting drowsy from the roll of the ocean and the darkness and the warmth. Cas's fingers explored his hair, urging him toward sleep with slow lazy spirals. He felt the angel's lips touch his temple and utter something that sounded like a word.

And the memory of the dream ended as the original, in contentment dark and sweet.

"Wake up, Dean." Gabriel's voice brought him around, and he was again leaning against the car in the chill of the night. Owls nipped at his hair from behind, and he ducked from their sharp beaks in annoyance and swatted at them.

"Well?" He eyed the gray owl in warning and looked at the angel.

Gabriel stepped back and offered a bittersweet smile. "He did say something to you as you drifted off."

"What was it?"

"Nemyahi," the angel said softly.

Dean frowned at him. "What's that mean?"

"It..." Gabriel looked around, plumbing the depths of his knowing. A hundred translations failed to capture it completely. "It means the soul that emphatically _is_, the force of life that empowers and permeates... that burns so brightly..." And still he knew he missed the sweetness of it and struggled for a better way to explain in human terms.

Dean waited for him to go on.

"We use it to name the piece of God in us... There"--he sighed helplessly--"there aren't any good words. But think of it as 'beloved,' and that's what he meant."

Dean swallowed as heat crept up his neck and face, and he looked away. Gabriel had seen them, entangled and bucking. Doing things angels and humans shouldn't do. And for Cas to say _that_, Christ. The flutter in his stomach said he wasn't ready for it, hadn't earned it nearly enough, hoped but didn't believe. More than that, there was a price. There was always a price. He wondered, had been wondering since Gabriel had shown up...

Dean glanced at the archangel out of the corner of his eye and felt cowardly for doing so. He dug up enough courage to look at him squarely, and in a small, terrified whisper, asked what plagued him. "Is that why Cas's in trouble? Because of me?"

Gabriel felt the question hit his body, shock his heart. It was made of glass, this question, spun out and hung on an unsteady limb. Gabriel pursed his lips and for a moment turned his eyes skyward in a gesture Dean had seen Castiel use many times. He looked searchingly and asked sadly, "Why do you ask me that, Dean?" He met the man's dual-natured eyes seriously.

Dean felt like he was back in school, explaining another test gone wrong after class. He shrugged. "Anna said angels don't have emotions, and that she fell because--"

Gabriel held up a hand to stop him. His fingers curled slowly into a fist that drifted down to his side. "That's not why Anna fell." He spoke with a strange sadness, filled with stardust and angel things Dean couldn't quite read. "She fell because she disobeyed. Not because she loved." Dean thought it might be regret.

"But... what about the other thing."

Gabriel's eyebrows lifted in question.

"You know, the man shall not lie with man... thing." He gnawed the inside of his lip uncomfortably, trying to pretend he hadn't just said that to an angel for Christ's sake.

The angel shook his head lightly, sadly. "I'm surprised you didn't know. There have been prophets and gospels written since that time. The message in them is the same: Love as Thou Wilt."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning in love there is safety and compassion. There is honor, loyalty, bravery, and courage. Love is how the universe strives to know itself, that its sundered pieces may be fashioned into a whole." By Dean's expression, Gabriel knew he was barely making sense. He thought for a quiet moment and tried again. "It means... honor how you feel. This is what God wants."

Dean thought God should be a bit clearer on what he wants. When cryptic angelspeak is an improvement, you've got serious PR issues. He studied his shoes for a moment. Then he pushed off the Impala and started back toward the room. Birds on silent wing lifted into the air, and Gabriel fell in beside him.

"Dean?" he asked, unsure if the man was upset.

"I'm sorry that was useless," came the gruff reply.

The archangel regarded him, searched the colors rippling across his soul, and then nodded his understanding. This moment had passed. There was work to be done.

  
XX

  
Bright industrial lights stared down at Castiel's bare back. He gleamed under their institutional eyes, his bowed head casting harsh shadows on the concrete floor. His hands were splayed wide to hold him up, and already his knees ached.

Fabric swished and dusted the floor as Inanna approached. And then she settled her warm weight on his back as though he were a throne, tapping polished fingernails on his shoulder blade. The air around her held a hint of sandalwood, vanilla, and sparkling sugar.

The woman she had chosen had been a housewife, who had always thought her hips were too wide, her thighs too thick. She was rounder and softer than she thought she should have been. Her breasts were heavy from having borne a child, and imperfect. She was a Venus as Venus was meant to be, a hearty rose of velvet petals screaming red with life. A woman of secrets, willing to share.

Inanna traced around the muscles of Castiel's back to his neck and let her fingers linger over the collar that kept his soul bound. He made no attempt to struggle. Of course he didn't. He couldn't.

She glanced up at the small altar she had made and the wooden doll that rested upon it. It knelt on all fours. Her blood red lips stretched into a smile, and she turned her attention back to the angel beneath her. What fun they were going to have.

She slid from his back for a moment, kneeled, and then gripped the muscle of his naked ass in both hands. With satisfaction, she watched his head jerk down, knowing he struggled and was powerless. The grip eased into massaging hands. Like a long lost love, she stretched herself over him, thin black dress doing nothing to hide her body. She nuzzled up to his ear.

"Do you remember how it used to be? Were you there when the First Children were the only children?" She breathed hot breath on his ear and licked at him. Castiel edged away with a sneer, and Inanna hummed, digging her fingers into his hair to hold him still.

"This used to be ours." She ground herself against him, rocking them both. "We were explorers then. The first denizens of pleasure." She shifted, pressing into him, bringing her lips to his other ear. After a breath, she drew blunt teeth over an earlobe, licked and sucked, and whispered into him. "Angels knew one another. Angels loved. Fierce Raphael, tender Saebrael, shy Cantos, beautiful Lucifer…"

Inanna's voice grew distant, and she drew back to press her cheek between Castiel's shoulders. Her arms wrapped around his middle. "Do you know what happened?"

Fierce anger lanced through him at her intimate touch. He tried to move, even lift a finger to cast the demon off, but all his will combined produced nothing. He pressed his lips together in a fine line.

"Do you?" She urged, shaking him lightly.

"No," Castiel ground out, more because he didn't care.

"He made _them_," Inanna's words dropped like obsidian shards. "The Second Children. And it was time for us to put away our childish things." She surged against him again, brushing one hand along a rough cheek and encasing him in a curtain of dark hair as she pressed their cheeks together. "He gave them what was ours," she hissed, and then softened suddenly. "But all will be well. We shall take it back"--she ran a hand lovingly down his side--"and all will be well. And you, lovely Castiel, soldier burning bright, are going to help me."

"Never," he jerked away in defiance, trying to ignore the skittering laughter that spread like beetles among the demons who watched just out of sight.

Inanna merely smiled. With the languid movements of a serpent, she slid off him and up to standing. Through the space between his legs, he could see her retreat from the circle that caged him and the unforgiving light that beat down. She reached the altar, and he could feel her fingers close over the doll as though they closed over his skin. Words of power passed her lips, and his guts tightened in dread as he felt the compulsion take hold.

Castiel bent his mind to resistance. He pushed at his vessel's limbs, _his_ limbs. What few muscles he could control strained until trembling, but the rest... he was a puppet with cut strings, moved only by Inanna's fingers played upon a doll.

He heaved as she stood him up, blowing fury like a draft horse. Then he turned, being _presented_ to a cadre of demons in stripped finery. Inanna lifted one arm, then the other, lashing him to a cross of air. Beyond the glare of the lights, shadows moved, whispered to one another, laughed. They were only demons and should give him no reason to fear, but in the cold and under the light, his body screamed to him a terror. Another secret, he thought, inscribed in flesh.

Something on the edge of his vision flashed, and he turned toward it. A demon, one of the men, stepped into his cage, holding a knife whose blade of black metal narrowed to an imperceptible edge. Script glistened along it.

"Go ahead, Seth, darling," Inanna crooned. "He won't bite."

Castiel watched with widening eyes as the knife touched his skin and then sliced a blooming streak across his chest. He caught his cry in his throat and held it there; bit down on the insides of his lips to keep from screaming as thin, almost surgical lacerations opened across his body. The pain was more than he would have imagined, reverberated down from body to being and lingered.

When blood ran like tears down to his feet, the cutting stopped, leaving him trembling.

When Inanna released the grip of the spell, he collapsed into a heap and shook with the effort to breathe.

  
XX

  
"Well?" Sam looked up from the laptop as they entered.

Dean shrugged and shot the archangel a "Don't You Say a Damn Word" look. "Nothing useful." He tossed off his coat and sank onto a bed.

Gabriel silently crossed his arms and legs and leaned against the wall by the door. He watched Dean with curiosity for a moment and then turned to Sam.

Sam frowned at the both of them, skeptical. "Right," he said absently. "Well, while you guys were out, I had an idea."

"This a Ruby idea or a your idea?"

Sam felt a twinge of anger. He was trying to help, and if Dean didn't want his help than he could just—

Sam took a breath—a long and slow one that involved closing his eyes and bouncing his leg a few times to work out the energy that would otherwise turn into a shouting match.

"Mine," he said at last, through tight lips. Then, "No. You know what? No. Maybe it was Ruby's. Maybe the demon who helps us _all the time_ is helping us with this too. You think we should give it a shot?"

Dean scowled and hunched over. "What'd she say?" he asked him, lowly.

Sam's bitchface smoothed, though his indignation seethed. "Nothing. I didn't call her," he admitted. "_I_, however, was thinking... if something happened to Castiel, it was probably a demon, right? Probably a pretty strong one. Now, maybe we can't follow an angel, but we _could _look for signs of a demon."

Dean's scowl melted, and he couldn't quite suppress the look of pride on his face. "And? What'd you find?"

Sam turned to face the screen. "Two things that looked promising. First, there's Charlotte, North Carolina. It's been pounded by the same thunderstorm for a week. Meteorologists are clueless, the clouds don't move, and no one seems to have any idea when it might stop."

"Okay. Wacky weather. And the other one?"

"South Beach, Florida-"

"Oh-ho... South Beach." Dean smiled wickedly.

Sam gave him a withering look and bitchy sigh. "_Thirty people_ have gone missing in the last two weeks. So far, no bodies have shown up anywhere, so the police have no idea what to do. Until someone turns up dead, there's no pattern and no clues."

"So you're thinkin' maybe some human sacrifice? Break a seal?"

"With that many people?" Sam shrugged. "I don't know what to think. Possessed, maybe?" He turned in the chair and looked at his brother, a question scribbled in the lines of his brow.

Dean drew a breath and slanted a look toward the door. "Well? You got any opinions?"

Gabriel tilted his head and closed his eyes as though an aria was drifting through the motel wall. Lost in thought was seemingly an accurate description when it came to angels. After a moment's silence, he looked at the brothers in turn. "Kidnappings can be easily perpetrated by humans. Manipulating the powers of nature requires... more."

Like a punctured balloon, Dean visibly deflated. "Figures. Man. Why do we _always_ get the crappy weather?"

"So we're going to Charlotte?" Sam closed the computer and got up.

Dean nodded, already gathering his things. "And damned well hoping you're right, too."

Something in his voice shook, and Sam peered at him. Cautiously, "This might be a long shot. I mean, it was just an idea."

Dean stopped in the middle of shoving a shirt into his duffle. He looked over at his brother, and for a second, there was raw fear, quickly plowed over. Dean forced a smile. "Yeah, but, you're a little bit psychic right?"

"Not in a--"

"Roll with it, Sammy." Dean shoved some more clothes in his bag. He spared his brother a quick fretful glance. "Pretty sure this is all we've got. Even if you're wrong, there is no Plan B."

Sam watched him pack. It was the little things, the way he dropped his keys and bumped his bag into the door frame on the way out. Dean was nervous, anxious. And the way he kept looking or _not _looking at Gabriel... Sam frowned at the both of them as he got his shit together and they got the car saddled up.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam Winchester was good at many things. Pouting was one of them. Dean didn't know where he got it from, cause it certainly wasn't from him and it certainly wasn't from Dad. But he had great big Olympic distance runner-like skills, and he wasn't afraid to use them. Dean wasn't even sure what Sam was mad about, but every time he glanced in the rearview mirror, hazel eyes and a slightly protruding lip stared back at him. For the first hundred miles out of Wheatland, he ignored it, just turned the music up a little to keep himself awake and let the car roar. Cause she loved the open road.

The second hundred miles, he floored it a little more and kept his eyes on the road—fight avoidance ostrich style. Gabriel stared out the window, chin in his hand, pointedly not studying the weft of the brothers' souls. Sam still said nothing.

By North Platte, Dean's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Pregnant silence echoed from the back seat and accusations like laser beams burned the back of his skull. He never had much patience anyway and enough was e-God-damned-nough. He punched the radio off with a violence that startled even Gabriel and glared in the mirror.

"What, Sam," he barked.

The younger brother wasn't even surprised. "I want to know what you're not telling me."

"What I'm not telling you about what?"

"About this!" Sam lifted his hands. "About Castiel! I'm not stupid."

"Sam--" A warning.

"No! You freaked out back there. You don't freak out about anything."

Dean was shaking his head in denial, curling his lips against his teeth. "Sammy..." He was plaintive. Practically begged him to let it drop.

Sam huffed and pulled a tight-lipped expression of anger. "So that's how this is gonna work? _Gabriel_ gets to know, and I don't?"

The archangel, quiet until that point, suddenly turned to look at Sam and then at Dean. He shifted uneasily on the leather seats. "Perhaps I should go."

"What?" Dean shot him a look. "Oh, no you d--"

"I'll meet you when you stop."

The air rustled, and when Dean looked again, Gabriel was gone. He bit back a curse but glared hard enough at the empty passenger's seat that the car started to swerve. _Coward._ Dean checked the car's drift and slammed on the accelerator, both hands on the steering wheel, like he could leave the back seat in the dust.

"Dean, I wanna know!"

"I am not having this conversation, Sam."

"I wanna know why you freaked out."

Dean exhaled hard and spoke lowly. "No you don't."

"Well, it's apparently something important, so I think maybe I do." He gripped the seat and leaned forward, wishing Dean would at least look at him in the mirror. His voice softened some. "What? Is it bad?"

The elder brother offered a humorless little laugh. "Depends on your definition."

"Come on, man!" Sam implored, part whine and part exasperation.

"Dammit, Sam..."

"Just _tell_ me!"

"We have a thing, all right?" came the angry reply, barked in breaking frustration.

Sam leaned slowly back against the seat. "A thing," he echoed.

"Yeah."

"What do you mean you 'have a thing'?" Sam asked cautiously.

Dean hunched, shaking his head slowly. "Please, Sammy. Don't," he whispered like ripping paper.

It _was_ big, whatever it was. Sam felt torn and terrified either way, but he steadied his voice, raking his fingers through his hair. "What do you mean... you have a thing?" he said slowly.

God, Dean didn't want this conversation. He felt his breath leaving in deep draughts, as though the terror wound its way around his lungs. His heart hurt from the speed it was going. He kept his eyes on the road, afraid to look anywhere else.

Dean worked his suddenly dry mouth. "He..." _Godgodgod_. "He was saving me from the nightmares, Sam. Bringin' me out. It was just..." He drew a shuddered breath. "It felt... safe. And I just couldn't... I didn't wanna... God... _dammit_." Could he talk about Hell now?

"Whatever it is, man, it's okay," Sam said in the voice he reserved for the young and the wounded.

Dean sucked a breath and tightened his fingers on the steering wheel to hide his trembling. "Kissed him, Sam," he said it so quietly it almost couldn't be heard.

"You..." Sam's whole body went cold with astonishment, and he stared slack-jawed.

"And more." Dean chanced a look in the mirror. His brother was searching the inside of the car, barely breathing. He rubbed his hands on jeans rhythmically. Dean imagined he was trying to wipe off the disgust.

"In the dreams?" Sam asked eventually.

"Yeah, in dreams. But it's real enough, believe me."

Sam pressed back against the seat and raised his eyes to the roof. For a long time, he was silent. "I do," he said, and made a small sound of amusement.

Dean caught the half-smile and dared to hope that maybe Sam might still think they were brothers. "What?"

Finally, their eyes met in the small piece of glass, and Sam looked like he might cry.

"You were happy Wednesday morning," he told him with a heavy smile. "I mean, _happy_, Dean. Christ, you asked me to get you a Buddha Special." He laughed, a little breathless.

Ingredients for a Buddha Special: Drive to the nearest fast food joint. Order one of everything.

Dean laughed a little back, a sound thick with emotion. "Yeah, I guess I did." He checked the road, and when he looked back, Sam was pensively gazing at his hands. It was coming. He could see his brother building up to it. The frown meant he was picking his words carefully. The way he bit the insides of his lips was him gauging how angry Dean would be. They'd already taken the conversation he didn't want to have this far, no point in giving up before the finale. Dean swallowed and said in a faint voice, "Just ask."

Sam shook his head, not looking up. "I don't have to ask."

"Yes, you do."

The younger brother looked up then, kindness in his eyes. "No, Dean, I don't." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Do you... do you remember when we were kids. I must've been, I dunno, eight or nine. We were in... Oregon I think. Been there about a month."

Goose pimples spread down Dean's arms.

"You had a friend over-some guy you were teaching how to shoot." Sam chuckled lightly. "I remember cause Dad would've been pissed if he knew." He settled and grew somber. "Dad was out all day like always, and I was supposed to be in bed. But"--he met his brother's wide-eyed look in the mirror--"I got thirsty and came out to get something to drink. Quiet so you wouldn't notice." Sam paused and wet his lips. "I saw you," he said gently, looking out the side window. "On the couch. With that guy."

"Curt." Dean hadn't said his name in years. Speaking it felt like stepping in Bizarro World. And hell yes, he remembered Oregon.

"Yeah. Him, and then Dad opening the door, and then him yelling like... like I dunno what. I ran back in my room and dove under the covers. Figured if he knew I was awake, he'd be yelling at me, too."

Dean felt his eyes well and licked his lower lip as he fought it down. "Didn't know you saw that," he said eventually.

Sam smirked and laughed. "Yeah, well, stealthy, right? I never really thought about it again until now."

Dean tried to speak over the lump in his throat, and it took a few. "I'm sorry," he told his brother.

Sam frowned at him. "For what?"

But Dean didn't answer, couldn't answer because he was supposed to be trying to be okay with this doing guys thing, and apologizing wasn't exactly top acceptance form.

Eventually, Sam picked up the slack. "Well, don't be."

They looked at one another, and the corners of Dean's eyes crinkled in a smile. He didn't know what else to say and settled on nothing, turning his attention to the interstate. For awhile, Sam let the silence dwell, let the air empty of shards and emotions cut off. When it became companionable, that easy silence of the road disappearing under the wheels, he asked the inevitable.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

"Do you love him?"

Dean heaved a sigh that was all weariness. "I don't know," he answered as honestly as he could. "But I'm not gonna let some demon keep him, that's for damn sure."

Sam grinned and then slumped further in his seat. "When you get tired of driving, let me know," he said after a yawn.

Dean smirked and reached for the radio. He could do another hundred miles, easy.

  
XX

  
Dawn broke somewhere outside of Lincoln, reaching rosy fingers through the sky and catching clouds in wayward play. Dean drowsed in the passenger's seat, moving every so often as his head bounced against the window. Sam yawned until he teared up and tried to keep his eyes on the road. His stomach growled, and his head bobbed like he was going to drift to sleep. He sniffed and forced his eyes wide. As they neared civilization, he started scanning for a diner.

A sign declaring "Madeleine's" in bright red letters on a plain white oval came up on the left. The parking lot had a handful of semis and a car or two. Evidence enough that the joint was open this early, and open was Sam's only criteria.

Sam eased the car into the lot and cut the engine. He looked, but Dean didn't stir, and part of him wanted to leave it that way. Even when he slept, he didn't sleep, not really. For awhile, the late night screams and gasping awake night sweats had stopped. He'd thought, maybe Dean was getting used to being human, to being back. Turns out it was divine intervention doing them some good for once. Even since Castiel had gone missing, though, Dean seemed more rested. Maybe, Sam thought, he'd found something better to dream about. And wow, did that train of thought need to leave the station on its own.

He would have let him sleep if he could, but if the coffee didn't help, they were going to have to switch soon, anyway. He reached out and nudged Dean's shoulder. Dean grunted and then mumbled something unintelligible.

"Well," Sam spoke over a yawn, "I'm gonna be inside."

His brother made another series of slurred noises which had the timber of acknowledgment. Whatever. Sam shrugged and got out, too tired and hungry to be a pain about it. Dean would wake up or freeze as the car cooled. His choice.

The inside of Madeleine's smelled blissfully like coffee and cooking sausages. Sam glanced around the counter and row of booths with a hunter's appraising attention. Without even thinking, he noted exits and assessed the other patrons. He froze when his eyes fell on Gabriel, sitting in a booth facing him. The archangel wore an expression Sam hadn't seen on him before. His fingers were interlaced and resting on the table top, impassive. But he was glowering, looking downright pissed and vaguely like he'd stepped in dog shit.

He was also not alone.

Someone with long dark hair-a woman with...

Sam's heart hit the ceiling and dropped painfully back into his chest. He was at the table in seconds, staring between the two of them.

"Ruby?" He said in a small worried voice.

She took her eyes off Gabriel long enough to give him a fake smile. She breathed in short pants.

Sam slipped into the seat beside her, unsure of what he'd just walked in on. He took it as a bad sign that she didn't move to hug him or kiss him or even take his hand. She just stared at the angel with defiance and fear.

"What are you doing to her?" Sam rounded on him, trying to sound controlled and failing.

"Holding her."

"It _hurts_," Ruby hissed viciously, barely able to move.

Sam looked at her, wide-eyed, and took her hand, even if she couldn't take his. Her cheek kept flinching, and Sam felt anger smolder in his chest. Gabriel was supposed to be their friend, they were _helping_ him. Raw indignation and a will for violence boiled up, but they had no place here. Not against an angel anyway. He drew an unsteady breath to calm himself and looked at the man across from him. It would be nice if someone, once, would treat Ruby like a person instead of a thing.

Sam swallowed his pride. "Please don't hurt her," he said quietly.

Gabriel narrowed his dark eyes in thought. "She is a demon." He was matter of fact.

The slightest twinge touched Sam's lip and eye. "She's a demon who's trying to do good," he said calmly. He pressed his free hand flat on the table top and splayed his fingers. Not making a fist. See? Nice Sam, not threatening. "She helps us, Gabriel. Saves our lives!" His hushed plea grew more impassioned, and he squeezed on Ruby's hand.

"Saves your lives," the angel repeated, slowly. He raked her with his gaze.

Ruby snorted indecorously. "More than you do."

It was the wrong thing to say. Sam winced as soon as she said it. Gabriel's eyes flashed, and his contempt became anger. Ruby gasped soundlessly and shrank into herself. Wet air like fog rolled through the diner. Every glass in the restaurant shudderingly began to sing small timpani cries. The angel's chest heaved as his emotions spun, and Sam stared around with rising panic. The hair on his arms was on end.

"Gabriel!" he whispered in a harsh, hurried voice and gripped the archangel's clenched hands.

The angel blinked at the sudden contact and stared at Sam's hand. From that, he became quickly aware of everything else around him. With visible effort, he relaxed. The wails of the glasses died down with the tide of his emotions.

Sam shook faintly and drew his hand back, but he gave Gabriel his fearless regard, waiting, and at the end, screwing his face up into a plea.

Without so much as moving, the angel released his grip.

Ruby gasped in relief and sank into Sam's side. Much to Gabriel's surprise, Sam gathered her close and pressed a kiss into her hair along with mutterings of, "You're all right" and "It's okay."

It was crap dealing with angels. Even as Sam pressed Ruby into a protective hug, thankful for her safety, he was outraged. Torn between shooting Gabriel a scathing look and a grateful one, he erred on the side of caution and ignored him for the moment.

With a finger on her chin, he tilted Ruby's head up and leaned back so he could see her face. She allowed for the space between them and nudged lightly into his fingers when he brushed her hair from her face. It was a painfully intimate a gesture.

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked softly.

She shrugged one shoulder, as though the answer were too stupid and obvious to actually need saying. But by Sam's look, it did anyway. "Following you."

He laughed a little, genuinely amused and a bit confused. "But you got here first. And I didn't even know where _here_ was until I pulled in."

She tugged at his coat playfully. "C'mon, Sammy. I did what you'd do. Found the biggest baddest fight and headed for it."

He looked rather doubtful.

"And... maybe a scrying pendant and deck of cards or two might have helped..." She smiled coyly.

It was a smile he couldn't resist, and he sighed out his relief. "I'm glad you're here." She kissed the backs of his fingers. "But--" Sam started to slide out of the booth, hunching. "You should probably go. Dean'll be right behind me and"--Ruby's eyes flicked, and Sam sagged, defeated--"and he's right behind me."

"Yes, he is," Dean announced with a smattering of bravado. Sam stiffened by reflex.

Ruby tipped her head and grinned at Sam before sliding out of the booth. She gave Gabriel as wide a berth as possible, not even looking in his direction.

Sam kept himself as a wall between Ruby and his brother, maneuvering around like one look and they'd turn each other to stone. He gripped her hand briefly as she slid past and let his arm stretch out until she broke the hold and hurried away. Three sets of eyes watched like hawks. When she was out the door and gone, Sam sat in the booth in her place. He felt Dean sit beside him bumping up against him 'cause the seat was too damned small for the both of them.

  
Silences, man. Dean cast his brother a sidelong glance and then looked at Gabriel, who seemed to be content to watch. But damn if Sam didn't pick at his nails and then stare at his hands and grind his teeth, working his jaw until it hurt just to watch him.

"Quit it, Sam, you're takin' up all the air," Dean groused.

The younger brother scowled and shot an accusatory look across the table. "He almost _smited_ my girlfriend," he said, jabbing a finger in Gabriel's direction.

The angel looked, of all things, insulted. "I did not _almost smite_ your girlfriend," he corrected in a tone harder than either Winchester had heard him use. "If I wanted her dead, then she would be dead." And it was kinda hard to argue with him on that one.

Sam stared hard. "So then what did you want?"

Gabriel shrugged languidly. "To see with my own eyes."

"See _what_ with your own eyes?" Sam resisted the urge to slam on the table, spreading both hands out on the flat surface so he could mind that they didn't do it on their own.

The angel sighed deeply. "The Host believes that she has you in her thrall."

_"In her thrall?"_ Dean mocked, but Gabriel silenced him with a look that would've done Dad proud.

"I wanted to see for myself if it was true," the angel went on.

"And?" Sam asked like he was trying to convince himself he didn't care.

"And... I don't believe it's compulsion."

Sam stared at him for a moment, sure he'd heard Gabriel wrong. "You... don't," he said warily.

"No." The angel looked puzzled by his own admission and studied Sam like he was the answer to last week's crossword.

"So... what does that mean?" Dean asked. "No more Acme brand bull’s-eye on Sam's head?" Which was really the million dollar question, here.

Gabriel measured his words carefully and spoke to Sam, as it was his life, his darkening soul in the balance. "Just because she does not hold you in thrall does not mean that she doesn't otherwise control you"--Sam tensed--"but..." Gabriel paused and stared down at the tabletop, a slight crease of thought marring his brow. "Love is God's creation..." he said as much to himself as to them.”It..." He trailed off, shaking his head, and looked at Dean, at a loss for reading portends of Sam's fate. "No... our concern remains. But I have shared my opinion with my brothers. For whatever that may be worth."

Dean hitched a smirk, not quite sure how much that was worth himself. But it _sounded_ like another angel in their corner, and that was something. Better than one set against them, anyway. Maybe if Sam made puppy eyes and smiled a lot, Gabriel would take a shine. Seemed to work on the rest of Creation.

All three were silent: Sam cooling down, Dean lost in thought, Gabriel watching the both of them. The brothers both looked tired, ragged, and a bit too pale. The strands of spirit that spindled between their souls were thin in some places, twisted and ugly in others. Scarred, Gabriel thought. He did not know them well enough to decipher more.

A slight shadow fell across the table, and Dean looked up at a tired-looking waitress. Out of habit, he smiled, not his best, but a solid effort, and she grinned back. She was roughly his age, no make-up, prolly cause in this kind of joint it didn't matter.

"Hi, my name's Ellen," she said sweetly enough. "What can I get you?" She settled hazel eyes on Dean, first.

"Umm, cup of coffee, please."

She scribbled. "That's it?" She asked and looked dubious.

Dean felt Sam's gaze as heat on the back of his head and suppressed a sigh. Almost apologetically he asked, "Can I get a plate of fries?"

Ellen grinned and dutifully wrote it down. "And you?" She looked at Sam.

"Coffee, large orange juice, and banana nut pancakes."

She nodded, wrote. Then looked at Gabriel. "And for you?" Her grin grew a little wider and reached her eyes as she looked at him. Her cheeks flushed a little pink under the touch of his regard.

"Chocolate cake," he replied pleasantly.

She ducked her head slightly. "Which one? We have two--"

"Whichever one has more chocolate."

The waitress quirked an eyebrow at his resolute tone and smiled. "Sure thing, devil's food cake, coming up." She checked him again over her notepad and then left without remembering to tell them she'd be right back with their drinks.

When she was out of earshot, Sam sputtered a laugh into his hand, and Dean bit his lower lip as his face turned red with the effort to not make a sound.

Gabriel stared at the both of them. "What?"

"What?" Sam broke and chuckled. "C'mon, dude. _Devil's food?_ That's a little funny."

Dean shook in silent laughter, though he tried his best to hide it. And Gabriel was forced to let his own amusement show. He smiled and shrugged helplessly, chuckling softly at Sam.

When Dean managed to get enough control, he said, "I didn't know angels ate. Like, anything."

Again, Gabriel shrugged noncommittally. "I like cake. And there is no cake in Heaven."

Dean made an amused sound. "Yeah, well, in Hell the cake is a lie."

Gabriel looked perplexed, and Dean shrugged dismissively.

Ellen returned with their drinks quickly enough, sliding over Sam's OJ and putting down a coffee carafe. "There you go," she said brightly. Then, she handed Gabriel a glass of water and set down a clear glass plate with a rather large slice of nearly black cake. "And for you. On the house."

The smile he gave her was positively beatific, and she blushed as she walked away.

Dean looked mildly offended. "What, you couldn't do that for us?" He poured some coffee and took a sip.

The archangel frowned. "Do what?"

A nod of the head toward the cake. "We're out here being God's warriors and you can't get us on the Heavenly meal ticket?"

Gabriel blinked and looked down at his plate, then up at the brothers. "This was charity," he said slowly, as though he were speaking to children.

The Winchesters looked at one another and then back at him. "So... you didn't just..." Dean waggled a finger in Ellen's direction. "Obi-wan Kenobi that waitress?"

Gabriel frowned slightly in puzzlement. "No."

A knowing, somewhat lascivious smile crossed Dean's face. He tried to hide it behind his coffee cup. Sam studied his orange juice and looked embarrassed. Gabriel read their reactions closely, observing the way they glanced at one another and tried desperately not to laugh at him. And they were clearly laughing _at_ him. His puzzlement and frown intensified.

Eventually, it was Sam who took pity. "I think she's... still kind of hoping you're going to pay," he said through a tightly controlled grin.

Gabriel considered this information and turned to look for their waitress. She was at the counter, writing out a check for another customer. As soon as his eyes landed on her, she looked up, smiled, and looked quickly back to her work, glancing up a few seconds later just to be sure. Gabriel swallowed and turned his attention to his companions. Understanding dawned and he could feel heat creeping up toward his face.

He cleared his throat and picked up his fork, ignoring the expectant stares. "So," he said at his casual best, "she wants angel food."

Sam snorted orange juice halfway out his nose.

Dean choked on his coffee and spent the next minute coughing and red-faced trying to get air.

Gabriel found himself inordinately pleased, though he did worry for a moment that Dean had hurt himself.

Breathless and sighing with laughter, Dean swiped tears out of his eyes. He actually couldn't recall the last time he laughed until he cried. Couldn't recall the last time he'd heard Sam giggle like a girl, either. The look he gave Gabriel was one of reevaluated respect. "And here I thought Uriel was supposed to have been the funniest angel in the garrison." He chuckled a little.

Gabriel's expression became stony. Nothing like talk of a dead traitor to keep the hilarity rolling. Dean inwardly kicked himself.

"I'm not in a garrison," he angel told him.

Now _that_ was interesting. "Free agent?" Dean wrapped his hands around his coffee mug.

The sound Gabriel made was not quite a laugh, and it held a wistful note. "There are no free agents."

Dean leaned in, a wicked glitter in his eyes, which drew Sam in closer as well. "Black ops?"

The archangel looked away.

"Seriously?" The elder brother sat up.

"No way," Sam breathed.

Gabriel said nothing.

"So, like, what do you do?" Dean asked in hushed tones. When Gabriel opened his mouth to respond, Dean cut him off. "And don't say if you told me you'd have to kill me."

The angel cast about the diner, thinking. "I do a lot of things," he said eventually. Then more darkly, "Uriel was lucky I was busy."

Despite the Winchesters' curiosity, it was clear that line of questioning just drove off a cliff. They both sat back and watched Gabriel attend to his free cake. And when he said he liked cake, did he ever mean he _liked_ cake.

He pressed the side of the fork through the slice with methodical reverence. It was a dense confection of flourless chocolate layers, ganache, mousse, and icing. He took the time to breathe in the cocoa aroma before taking the first bite. At the taste, his eyes fell shut in bliss, and he let out a small moan, an exhalation of pleasure. And that was just the first bite. Sam found himself enraptured but shifting uncomfortably as he watched. Completely unaware that people could _be_ self-conscious about such things, Gabriel licked at his fork after each bite, rolling the tines over his tongue to extract every hint of chocolate and sugar. Sam felt guilty just watching him and vaguely wished he could look away; Dean vaguely wished he was the fork.

When Ellen delivered their food, she nearly tripped watching him. At the brothers' somewhat embarrassed expressions, she blushed furiously and hurried away.

By the time he had finished, Sam was just finishing up his breakfast. Dean had picked at a fry or two and was peering down into his cup. Gabriel set his fork down with finality and a pleased hum.

"We should go," he said and slid from the seat.

Dean's head came up. "Go?" He scowled. Three cups of coffee, and he still felt like a lead doll. The sleep in the car had been fitful and not very restful. And there had only been a few hours of it anyway. He shifted and felt sluggish. Beside him, Sam yawned, and when he looked, he could see the circles under his brother's eyes and paleness to his skin. If sitting and being awake for the last hour had told him anything, it was that the last thing they needed to be was sitting and awake.

Gabriel straightened his jacket. "Yes."

"No. What we _need_ is to sleep." Dean raised his eyes.

They did look tired, the angel had to agree. "Then sleep. I will drive," he said reasonably.

Dean was out of his seat like somebody kicked him. His exhaustion seemingly vanished under a flare of anger. "Oh no, you won't! You are not touching my car."

Gabriel quirked his head. "It's a simple machine."

"And _that_ is why you can't drive her."

"Dean." This outburst was even more tiresome than the first, and Gabriel found his patience worn thin by worry.

"I said, no!" Dean jabbed a finger into Gabriel's chest. "End of discussion." He turned his back.

Were it not for the second slight, Gabriel might have kept himself in check. His brother was missing, _missing_ and somehow formed metal meant more than that? Dean's _defiance_ meant more than that? The angel carried within him a volcano that bubbled power and fury. Fear and worry and fierce love exploded into anger within him and the world about them quailed.

At once the dampness and chill of a New England harbor rolled through the diner along with the scent of fallen leaves. Dean spun in alarm as it washed over his back. As before, every glass started to whistle and sing as though harried souls voiced their screams through each vessel. A sudden loud thud caused every ducking and petrified patron to jump, and Ellen let out a shriek, pointing at the windows. Ravens and seagulls flocked into the parking lot, dropping in blankets, squawking along with starlings, owls, hawks, and blue jays. A second raven hurtled itself at a window and left a blood smear as it fell. More came, filling in the air, clawing at the window sills.

Dean blanched, wincing at the growing shrill cries. Gabriel's chest heaved, and his eyes were almost too much to meet, but Dean glanced out the window and back, his own ire spiking. Angels could be pissy and moody and he was goddamned done with that noise.

"All right, Alfred, enough with the birds already!" Dean ducked as one smacked high on the window with a sick crack; it would've hit him in the head had it come through.

The angel angled a look outside and then slowly back. Dean met him ounce for pissed off ounce, lifted his chin in challenge despite the way his insides quaked. Gabriel's anger pierced cold, like being dipped in an icy lake. The ringing jumped to an ear-bleeding pitch, and Dean finally flinched from the pain. The break in eye contact was brief, but enough for Gabriel to see the harm he was causing. Startled at his lack of control, he closed his eyes and reeled in his anger--a receding tide of wild emotion and oppressive dread.

The diner became deathly quiet. Gabriel still glared dangerously, but on a human scale. "We are wasting time."

And that point Dean couldn't argue. Any time not on the road was more time Cas was missing and God Knows What. He put off thinking about the last part because there was only so much a body could deal with at once. You either took things one at a time, by degrees, or busted all at once.

"Sam and I'll take turns." It was a lame offer, he knew, because they _had _been taking turns already.

Gabriel knew it as well and narrowed his eyes. "You're tired. He's tired. This is _foolish_."

Doggedly, "You are not driving my car."

The angel sighed out the end of the world and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Then I will keep the driver awake."

"Fine."

"May we go?"

Dean checked the rest of the diner and the dozen or so sets of eyes turned their way. For the moment, they were too stunned to start thinking something dangerous and moblike, but that wasn't likely to last for long. One look at his brother, and Sam was out of his seat and heading for the door with Gabriel in tow. Abashed, Dean dropped a couple twenties on the table and hurried to catch up. Sam apparently figured he was the most awake, or maybe just that it was still his turn, because he was already behind the wheel. The angel took shotgun.

  
XX

  
The difference between bound and in bondage is the difference between strapped and in poverty. One is a condition of the soul. It touches the mind, the emotions, and the body, until it is written on the skin as sure and stark as ink.

Castiel knelt on the cold floor in the center of the Celestial Cage, shivering from vulnerability. He lifted his eyes weakly toward Heaven but saw only clouds the color of slate and rain sheeting off the glass portal in the ceiling that led to the outside. The portal, too, was circumscribed with a Cage and symbols Castiel had not learned in his studies. Lightning flashed. It could have been day. The sky always looked the same, so it was difficult to tell.

Inanna had gone to wherever it was that she went, leaving her doll on its perch next to the chair she lounged in and the table she dined at. Two of her cadre always stayed behind as guards, stretching bored and restless around a small card table. Castiel couldn't imagine what they thought he would do. It had been proven already that the Cage was beyond his powers to break, the collar defiant in the face of his attempts to tear it off, binding him into his vessel, crushing his wings. Pleas sent toward his brothers echoed back, as though bouncing off the walls of his prison, which perhaps they were. He breathed, and he sprawled naked on the concrete, and everything else was Inanna's will.

So this was bondage, then.

  
Something new.

Beyond the door, Castiel heard mewling and the rattle of chains, and he sat bolt upright, holding a hand up to shield his eyes from the lights. He squinted, and Inanna swept into view, followed by Seth, apparently her favorite, and a string of humans in chains like slaves to auction. He watched as Seth wrapped the chain around thick pipes by the wall and locked the links.

As the humans sniffled and flinched back, Castiel got to his feet and pressed against the invisible wall of his cage for a closer look. Four women: one in sweats, red hair, who tugged at her chains; a brunette with a pixie haircut in a sweater and jeans, who curled into the wall; a teenager with unnatural black hair, sobbing; and one in a business suit, quiet, defiant, and staring. Two middle-aged men: one in a white dress shirt, whose face and shirt were dark with blood and eyes were steady with rage; one dressed like a store clerk, with slight graying at his temples, looking resigned. The last was a younger man in a T-shirt and jeans whose eyes darted around as he tried to hold himself still.

It took them all a moment to realize he was there, and then they were all staring at him, gleaming as he did under the lamps.

Castiel turned his eyes to Inanna as she approached and reached her hand through the Cage's edge. She touched his face, and he pulled back with a sneer.

"Today, my little angel, the fun begins." Terror prickled up his spine at her words.

He glanced at the humans, then Inanna's red lips, drawn into a smile.

She turned on her heel and swayed toward the altar that held the doll. Castiel went rigid as he watched her hand come close and then wrap around its wooden body. Pressure squeezed at his limbs, and he swallowed bitterly.

Inanna nestled herself in her chair and waved a hand in Seth's direction. Castiel watched in interested confusion as the demon unlocked the handcuffs holding the red head and hauled her to her feet. He shoved her in the direction of the Cage and then swung a wicked backhand that caught her in the face and sent her stumbling in Castiel's direction.

She crossed over the line and hit him in the chest, might have knocked them both down except that the angel's strength was one of the few things that remained. He'd have caught her, but Inanna kept his arms at his sides.

With a gasp, the woman looked up and pushed herself away, as though the collision had been her fault. A tear of pain streaked her cheek, and a drop of blood welled at the corner of her mouth. She had green eyes. Wide and terrified green eyes. For a second, they shared misery and understood that they were in this together.

But then Castiel felt Inanna's hands moving him, her words gripping his vessel; and he snatched a handful of the woman's red hair in a fist and dragging her to him.

_No._ Inanna's commands were unstoppable. _No!_ His soul wailed.

He crushed a kiss to the stranger's lips and gripped one wrist in his free hand. After a moment of shock, she struggled, sobbed, tried to tear away. He yanked her hair back with a powerful jerk that made her scream. Sucked her quivering lip, and when she struggled again, bit until he tasted blood. She cried and shoved and beat her fist against him, had the fleeting hope that it had done some good when he let her lips go. Her face was red with tears and fear.

Castiel shook his head slightly. He did not want this, could not _do_ this.

"I'm sorry," he managed to say, even as his body threw her to the floor and caught her ankle in expert hands.

She puffed and clawed at him, squirming and kicking to get away. But his hands were iron where they landed. In a pull, he hauled her underneath him and pinned her there. _Oh God, Oh God. _Castiel's vessel moved without his consent, though he willed it, begged it to stop.

Then she began to plead. A sharp cry and he rent her shirt and more tears, tears everywhere. His hands squeezed her breasts through her bra, eliciting a series of small sobs. One hand on her throat to keep her down, he felt the other slip under her waistband and pull, sweats first, then panties. He felt tears in his eyes, of strain and uselessness.

Realized against all sense that he was hard and aching painfully when he ground against the woman's skin. Inanna could do _that_, too. He wanted to scream. So he screamed, pleading in the demon's direction that she stop this. His body rocked against the woman he held pinned. And God help him, it felt _good_.

For all her worth, she held her thighs together to keep him out. With one hand and a movement from his knee, he pried her open.

She wailed louder. And Castiel sobbed himself as he jabbed into her like a rutting bull. So hot, such pleasure-the nerves of his body betrayed him.

She muttered something, tried to. With anguish he realized what it was: _Please don't kill me._

_Slapslapslapslap._ The strokes his body made were punishing, and by her cries they hurt. But he couldn't stop, couldn't find a way to resist or fight it or stop. Just watch.

Watch as his fingers on her throat tightened and her eyes popped open.

Watch in cold horror as his other hand came to meet the first.

His hands gripped on the soft flesh of her neck; and that he could not watch.

She flung wild claws at his arms, at his face, thrashing and bucking, gagging and pleading as he pounded her body and held her down and squeezed, squeezed the very life...

_Heavenly Father..._

He felt it the moment her pulse stopped.

She was dead by the time he came inside her, a hideous spasm that marked his release from Inanna's control. Sickened and unable to look at what he had done, he crawled from her lifeless body and huddled into a ball, sobbing out anguish in hot tears.


	6. Chapter 6

Nearly a half hour out and Dean was, for whatever reason, still fighting to keep himself awake. He watched the road ahead through bleary eyes, slumped boneless against the seat. But was not, as he should be, sleeping.

Gabriel called his name, quietly enough that he had to lean forward. Then the angel turned, tapped him lightly on the forehead, and all was black.

Sam watched his brother sway back and topple over.

"What did you just do?" He asked, alarmed, checking the mirror again.

Gabriel hooked his arm behind the seat and twisted so he could get a good view, make sure Dean wasn't in an awkward position that would hurt him later. "I put him to sleep," he answered lightly. Then settled back and looked at Sam's profile. "One drives, one rests."

"So you knocked him out?" Sam sounded more skeptical of the wisdom than frightened by the prospect.

The archangel lifted his shoulders and grinned. "Harmless, dreamless sleep."

Sam half-smiled. "He could use it," he muttered.

The angel's grin faded, and he checked the man in the backseat again, reading what he could off of Dean's unfamiliar soul. Troubled. Wanting. Fear. Gabriel untwisted and watched Sam quietly for a moment, fascinated by the way the darkness within him vacillated.

"You're worried," he said after some pondering.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. "About Dean?" His expression sobered. "Yeah, I'm worried." Sam slanted a look sideways and saw Gabriel half-turned in his seat, arms crossed, watching him intently. He turned his eyes back to the road. He never talked about this. Not with Dean, certainly. And Ruby, she... she didn't understand how much it hurt to just look at him sometimes.

And here was a freaking archangel, apparently willing to listen now that Sam had stopped believing in the charity of angels. He could've laughed. Instead, he ground his teeth, jaw muscle jumping.

"Sam," Gabriel said mildly.

"He hasn't been the same," he blurted. "Not since he got back, and even worse since what you guys made him do." He took a breath and felt his worry and fear rise to the surface. "He doesn't eat," he told the angel in a thick voice. Not that Gabriel would understand, not that any of them would. But it scared Sam freaking shitless, and he didn't have a clue what to do about it.

"I'm sorry," the angel replied, subdued. "About the incident with Alistair."

Sam snorted and laughed bitterly. "Yeah, everyone's sorry. Easier to say, harder to live up to."

The truth of it drove Gabriel to silence. He hadn't been involved in any of it. And yet Sam's bitter disappointment made him feel that he had somehow failed. This he pondered along with the source of Sam's discontent--the ugly tendrils of spirit of a relationship in agony.

"People change," he said finally, not knowing if it would help. "They live, multiply experiences, and are different. It's how you are unique from each other; why you are unique from yourselves."

Sam smirked. "So... what? I can never go home again?" Because that was real useful advice.

Gabriel studied him and picked over his words carefully. "Is it so important that he be the same?"

That jolted. Because according to yesterday's Impala Oprah moment, Dean _wasn't_ the same as he'd always been. And Sam had been the first to reassure him that it would all be okay.

"To me? I don't--" He shook his head lightly. "I don't know." But he'd think about it, maybe even trying Gabriel's line on Dean and see how it went over. He checked in the rearview mirror. Yup, still sleeping. Unexpectedly, Sam yawned as his eyes focused back on the road. "Thought you were supposed to keep me awake," he tried to say over a stretching jaw.

Gabriel smirked. "I thought I was, but if you insist..." He reached two fingers toward Sam's temple. The man dodged on instinct, but even his reflexes were no match for an angel.

The sensation was like breathing cold mountain air. Sam shivered and his eyes flashed at the rush of energy and power that danced out to his fingertips. He gave his companion a look of astonishment, which was returned with a self-satisfied smile. His limbs buzzed with the urge to move, to run and fight and work to exhaustion. He gripped and gripped the steering wheel. One leg bounced like they were at a rave. He didn't even _like_ raves! And holy hell what kind of drugs was Gabriel packing?

"Sam?" Gabriel was watching him closely.

"You wanna drive? Cause, cause I just wanna run, like, maybe or something." He laughed anxiously and his leg bounced harder. "Or maybe, I dunno, areyousurethisisagoodidea? CauseI'mnotsurethisisagoodidea. AndIreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreally

feellikemyheartisgonnaexplodeorsomething."

The angel hummed a small perturbed sound and tapped him a second time. Sam's tensed shoulders relaxed in response, and he stopped trying to drive his heel through the floor.

"Better?"

Sam pulled a deep breath and exhaled long and slow, his heart rate returning to something that seemed normal. He flexed and stretched in place, trying to work out that feeling that his skin was going to crawl off, and gave Gabriel a sidelong glance. "Yeah. Thanks. That was... weird." He frowned.

"Sorry." A sheepish grin that quickly disappeared. They rolled on for a few minutes in companionable silence. Then Gabriel reached out and pressed his fingertips against the radio. Though the station dial never moved, the radio began to channel Sinatra.

Sam quirked an eyebrow exceptionally high and peered over. "Really?"

Gabriel chuckled. "You don't like it?"

In fact he didn't, but you didn't go telling an archangel that sort of thing. "Well, no, I just didn't--I mean, I expected that in Heaven they sort of--"

"Where do you think that voice came from?" Gabriel interjected.

And Sam found he had no reply other than to laugh. Sometimes as they drove, Gabriel even sang along, and Sam was reminded that angels' voices were the first to entwine in harmony. They decided on a five hour shift; after that, Gabriel would wake Dean and send Sam to slumber.

  
Dean's first thought, seriously, was that he'd woken up in the 1950s. You had to live a profoundly messed up kind of life when _that _was neither outlandish nor really all that alarming a thought to have. Gabriel's choice in music lasted about five minutes after they were on the road. And thankfully, it didn't come to an argument, although the angel did have to un-mojo the radio before the tape deck would work. Dean tried exceptionally hard not to have words about putting the whammy on his car. But when Gabriel didn't touch anything else or make the windshield washer start spraying silly string, he thought maybe it'd be okay to relax a little. They went through two Metallica albums before they had to stop for gas. The angel seemed to enjoy it, and Dean decided to forgive him for the radio thing on account of his deciding to have decent taste.

Gabriel watched the car fuelling exercise with interest and had to admit to himself as Dean went inside to pay that he wouldn't have known this ritual of travel on his own. He sat back, contemplative. Patience weighed heavy on him. His fingers itched for his sword. His body ached for the rush of fury and the satisfaction of destruction. He didn't want to be calm and rational, out _here_ taking the slow way.

He knew where _here_ was in the way that angels map the world. As a distraction, he wondered where it was as humans do. He reached for the map that the Winchesters had been using and unfolded it a few times to get the fuller picture. Roads traversed the land like veins. He followed their course to the last town they had passed and then further, unfolding the map even more until their destination came into view.

The car door slammed as Dean returned. Gabriel neither jumped nor looked up.

"What?" Dean asked after a moment of watching him.

The angel turned his head. "Just looking."

Dean glanced him up and down, shrugged, and started the car. As they pulled out onto the road, Gabriel carefully folded the map back to its original state, which had to count as a miracle all on its own, and slipped it back into the visor. He sat back, thoughtful and quiet.

Dean searched for something to say. "We should be in Charlotte by nightfall," was the best he could come up with. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabriel nodding, almost absently. Then the angel let out a small breath and bowed his head, his hands clasped neatly in his lap. Dean kept looking between him and the road. And it looked a hell of a lot like he was praying.

When the people who answered prayers started praying, that just seemed like a new level of bad. Dean imagined those complaints went straight to Management, and he'd bet the car that Management took its sweet time getting back to you.

"You're really worried," Dean said softly, like he'd just discovered that he didn't own the market.

The archangel lifted his head to look at him, confused and even a little insulted. "He's my little brother, Dean," he said, unable to hide his concern behind a completely even tone. "I don't know where he is. I don't know what's happened to him. And..." He sighed. "And our Father is silent on this," the last said in a whisper as Gabriel hunched and brought his head to his hands.

A sympathetic pain gripped in Dean's chest. "I keep--" His voice grated, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "I keep thinkin' I should've known, you know? A dream or a bat signal or something. But I didn't. I should've, and I didn't. I mean, people who y--" He cut himself off and rolled the words he couldn't say around on his tongue. He shook his head in light reproach. "You're supposed to know."

Gabriel sat up and watched him. Dean kept his gaze firmly on the road.

"If you hadn't come along..." Dean frowned and squeezed hard on the steering wheel. "Cas could be dead, and I wouldn't've known." His voice came out hard, angry.

"Castiel is _not_ dead."

Dean rolled his lips between his teeth, gnawing at the insides. "'Zat something you know or something you believe?"

Gabriel stared at him long and hard, until Dean eventually looked over and locked eyes for the briefest moment. Then it was back to the road.

"Yeah," was all he said before reaching for another mix tape.

  
The sky over the pine trees that lined the interstate was the color of angry ash long before night actually fell. Sam had taken over driving again, but Dean refused to be put under. A few more hours wasn't going to do him any good anyway, and he'd rather be alert when they got there. Through the windows, all three men had watched the sky grow darker the closer they got. The storm cloud had looked like mountains in the distance, until you realized that they totally weren't. Then they just looked like doom.

Eventually, it grew too dark to peer up at the sky anymore, and the moon had no chance busting through that kind of cloud cover. They were heading for the heart of the city. Seemed like the best place to find trouble.

Sam watched Dean in the mirror, not sure what he expected to see, just needing to be on the lookout. Every once in awhile, Dean watched Gabriel and then looked back down at his hands.

They were cruising along I-85, just getting toward the city limits and Route 16, when they finally found the storm. The air was empty, and then it wasn't, like driving into waterfall, and both Dean and Gabriel gasped loudly.

"What?" Sam straightened, alarmed.

Dean had his hand pressed against the window. "Pull over!"

"What?" Sam tried to see his brother's face in the mirror.

"Stop the car!" Dean growled, louder.

And Sam pulled to a halt with a squeal of tires and a short slide. His companions bolted from the car as one.

Dean jogged toward an empty shopping mall parking lot, turning in circles, searching. He panted as he spun, mindless of the rain that was quickly soaking him to the skin, the whipping wind, and lightning flashing in the distance. He looked at Gabriel, confused. "What the hell? It feels like..."

The angel looked up at the rain, around, sweeping his eyes over rain-soaked ground, asphalt, trees. "I know."

The pull was all around them. Dean spun helplessly in place because every direction pulled at him with that sense that said Castiel was nearby. The sense that woke him in the middle of the night. The soundless buzzing that prickled his skin and quickened his heart.

"Well, what does that _mean_?" he demanded.

"I have no idea." The archangel sounded haunted, hollow.

"Guys!" Sam was calling from the car. He stood in the angle of the door, his hands upturned and gesturing in a way that spoke a paragraph. What's the matter with you? What the hell are you doing? Have you realized that it's raining? Will you please get back in the car?

Dean turned again, breathless, and wiped pointlessly at the water running down his face. They should go, because it was stupid standing here. But the sense of Cas's presence... it was the first indication that he was still alive. And Dean didn't quite want to risk leaving that behind.

Gabriel's hand closed over his arm and tugged him. "Your brother is right. We should go."

Unable to think of anything to say, he gave Gabriel a worried look and shrugged out of his grip. They hurried back to the car; Dean sopped water all over the seat. Gabriel was perfectly dry.

Sam looked at them both expectantly, and not a little bit like an exasperated mother.

"We felt Castiel's presence," Gabriel offered.

Which sounded like it should be good news, except that they both looked miserable. "And?" Sam pressed. "Do you know where he is?"

"Everywhere," Dean said from the back seat, staring out at the rain.

Sam slanted at look to Gabriel, who simply nodded. "How--"

"I don't know." The angel cast about, looking just this side of freaking terrified. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. "Drive," he said.

Sam drove. Their destination: a Days Inn in the Fourth Ward. A bit more expensive than their usual digs, but the joint had a low enough rating that they figured it was as close to fleabag as they were going to find. Sam convinced Gabriel to do the checking in and insist on a bottom-floor room. Maybe they'd throw in a free breakfast on account of his sunny disposition.

The archangel returned, envelope containing their keys in hand. He passed it over to Sam.

"And he gave me this." Gabriel held up a business card with a phone number scrawled boldly on the back.

Sam snorted a laugh. "You really are a hit at parties," he muttered, grinning and flushing slightly with embarrassment as he pulled the car around to their room. Gabriel eyed him ponderously and tucked the card in an inside pocket of his jacket.

  
The brothers had the car unpacked in a matter of minutes. Neither said a word. Wasn't like they hadn't done this a few thousand times before. Dean set about warding the room from demons while Sam set up the computer. It might have been a dismal motel, but at least it came with wireless.

Gabriel sat on the bed and watched. It seemed to be all he was doing. Watching Dean pour salt along the window. Watching Sam look up news articles on the storm raging outside. Watching them drive. Watching them sleep.

Castiel's presence was like ants on his skin. His brother was here, alive, _somewhere_. And even so, he had no idea where to look, where to even start. That the sense of him should be spread so thinly, so completely over everything held no logic. Worry that was twisted into anger started bubbling through his veins, and he got up to pace, to move, to _do_.

Restless, he walked the length of the room and back. Each step only deepened his discontent, his outrage. Somewhere an angel was a prisoner. A share of the indignity fanned the flames of his anger until he started to shake. Rawky air gathered around, dropping the temperature in the small room. He could--should!--raze this town to ashes, and _then_\--

He came to a sudden halt, anger fueling breaths like forge bellows.

"Gabriel?" Sam's voice wavering with uncertainty.

With considerable effort, he turned his head slowly and opened his eyes-he hadn't remembered closing them. He watched Sam's face fall from concern to fear and his color leave him slightly.

"Are you okay?" Sam managed to say anyway.

Innocently asked, but Gabriel could have cracked the Earth wide with his response. Sam did not deserve his fury. So he clenched his fists until it hurt, clenched every muscle in his body until he swayed unsteadily with the strain. And then of a sudden relaxed. And if it looked like he breathed out smoke and steam, it would not have been far from the truth.

He looked at Sam again, regretfully this time, and said, "No."

Then he started for the door.

"Where're you going?" Dean called after him.

He stopped halfway out into the cold and rain and glanced back. "Out to do some good."

The elder brother frowned for a second and then said, "Well, here." He reached for something on the bed and tossed it to him. A cell phone. "Take that with you."

Gabriel turned it over in his hands and then tucked it into his inside jacket pocket. He didn't need Dean's permission to leave. Didn't need Dean's permission to do anything. But he waited until he got a slight nod anyway and then left.

After he was gone, Sam looked over at his brother with a pinched, indignant expression. "Did you just give him _my_ cell phone?"

  
XX

  
Gabriel walked into the storm, heedless of the ripping wind and steady rain. Neither touched him, as though he slipped between the cracks of their existence. It was an angel's theopneust way, and he did it without even thinking. Castiel's presence did sit heavily in the air, like a fog, but now that he expected it, he could filter it out and sense deeper.

His feet followed the scamandering if his mind. Like the heart notes of a perfume, demonic fetor permeated everything, even the sense that his brother was close by. The city reeked of it, and if the humans had been steeping in its power for as long as Sam had said, then they would have started to reek of it, too.

He scanned the streets as he walked, turning down avenues that seemed to be bringing him closer to the center of town. Street drains overflowed from the glut of water, and he had to swerve to keep from sinking his boots ankle-deep. For the most part, the city was quiet. Cars roared by and splashed up waves, but the rain and lightning kept most people safely inside.

Untouched, he pressed on, passing under streetlights that made his hair and shirt glow. The neighborhood around him loomed oppressively, large brick buildings whose upper stories vanished into the night. Unwelcoming, undecorated facades. Behind the walls, he could sense the many shades of human misery: worry about money, desperation for work, depression, hunger, rage, isolation, fear, hopelessness. A poor neighborhood, he surmised, and kept his eyes on the street.

Up ahead, a flicker of tan.

Shouting. A shriek!

Gabriel's battle-ready heart gathered momentum, and he shivered on wings.

To them, he came from nowhere.

A black woman backed up against a brick wall, a white man shoving a gun in her face and pulling at her purse.

Gabriel didn't give him the luxury of a warning. He rushed forward and grabbed the wrist that held the gun in one hand. Swung around the man's back and wrapped his arm around his throat.

"What--"

"Drop it!" Gabriel squeezed a pressure point and whipped the assailant's hand like opening a switchblade.

The gun went flying.

He felt the man shift his weight and knew what was coming. One side-step, and the man's heel slammed down on concrete, missing Gabriel's foot. He tightened his stomach to prepare for an elbow blow and merely grunted when it hit. A human's strength was almost laughable, but he was not prepared to give himself away.

Gabriel threw the guy forward. And much to his surprise, the attacker turned. Surely he couldn't be this stupid. The mugger pulled out a butterfly knife, because apparently he _was_, and wiped the rain from his eyes.

"I wouldn't advise that." The angel growled what he felt was fair advice.

"Fuck you!" The man stepped closer and slashed in Gabriel's direction.

He didn't dodge back, because the blade had no chance of reaching. _Fine_, the angel grinned darkly, enjoying the rush. _We will dance_.

His attack was precise and swift. The second time the man wound up for a slash, Gabriel lunged. Grabbed the man's wrist with his right hand, spun to crack him in the jaw with his elbow, and then brought the knife hand down over his knee. Gabriel felt the bones crack and released him. He watched the knife clatter to the pavement and then bounced back, positioning himself for his next move. He may have been grinning.

Howling, the man doubled over and clutched his busted arm to his chest. He gave Gabriel one wide-eyed look of panic, edged back, and then took off. He splashed through the rain, around the corner, and was gone.

Fire still coursing through his limbs, Gabriel bent to get the knife and then quickly swiped up the gun as well. There was no point leaving them on the street. Perhaps the Winchesters would like them. He settled for putting the folded knife in his pants pocket and the gun in his waistband, though it was cold and uncomfortably wet.

"Are you all right?" He asked as he straightened.

The woman he'd saved stared back at him, gripping an umbrella in one hand and her purse in the other. She didn't answer. He thought he heard a sob.

"Miss?" Gabriel tried again, stepping closer.

"Umm." She shrank away, and he hung back. "You--" She swallowed and fumbled to swing her purse over her shoulder. Sniffled and straightened her coat, finding her composure in the reordering of her appearance. "I guess I should thank you, Mister..."

"Gabriel," he offered, and grinned a little.

The woman made an approving sound, though she peered at him with suspicion. "Kinda strange a feller like you in this herr part a town at niight," she said.

He frowned and looked around them, unsure of her meaning. "I'm... not sure I understand."

She huffed, noting his accent. "You ain’t froom rownd herr."

"No."

She stared at him again. White boy in this part of the city could only mean trouble. But he just gave a serious whoopin' on her account. She stuck out her hand. "Ruth Barnes."

He took it. "Pleased to meet you."

She held out her umbrella a little to try to cover him, not noticing that there wasn't a drop on him, and looked up the street. "I was just headin’ home when that thar sonovabitch… bless his heart… came outta nowhere. Happenin’ a lot. Elsewise rich white folk from the suburbs comin' in here, causin' trouble. Don’t make no sense.”

Gabriel scowled. Oh, it made a perfect kind of sense.

Ruth went on, her agitation rising with the pitch of her voice. "An' the cops don't do a _damn_ thing. Jus' sit back and watch like crimes against us ain't their problem. This is a _good_ neighborhood. We got programs for the kids and a community garden!" She looked up at him, defiant and angry.

"I believe you," he replied kindly, though his thoughts swirled on the mention of suburbs and errant police officers.

A car zipped by, splashing water high, and Gabriel leaned in protectively. Lightning cracked overhead, and a roll of thunder tolled down the street. Ruth shuddered and let him huddle close.

"What you said about the cops," the angel said, glancing around and then back to her, meeting her dark eyes with his own. "You've seen this?"

She snorted. "Everybody's seen it. They gather down at Gloria's, while all hell's goin' on out here."

Gabriel considered that. More effects from the demonic miasma, perhaps. Perhaps something more. Impulse told him to find this Gloria's immediately. But Ruth was rooted in place, seemingly waiting for something.

"Would you... like me to see you home?" he hedged.

She straightened and held her head a little higher. "If it's no trouble."

Which beneath her pride was a yes. He grinned. "Lead the way."

Ruth's house was only a few blocks. They hurried through the rain and high wind, Gabriel keeping an eye out for any other wayward suburbanites. He followed her up the steps of a row house and stood tall and unphased in the portico as she fumbled for her keys.

A man's voice called from inside. "Ruthie?"

And then the door opened, and she hustled in, waving Gabriel in after her.

"Davis, this is Gabriel." She gestured as she slung off her wet coat. "Gabriel, my husband, Davis."

They shook hands automatically, Davis eyeing his wife.

"Gabriel here saved my life tonight," Ruth said as she clutched her husband's arm. He turned questioning eyes the angel's way.

"A man was trying to steal her purse." He shrugged. "It was nothing."

"Nothing! Had a gun in my face! An' when he lost that, pulled a knife! You shoulda seen 'im"--she gestured at Gabriel--"straight out of a movie."

Whatever a movie was. A street thug was hardly a seasoned legionnaire, and compared to the titan children of the nephilim? Well... But he kept his tongue still. The woman was paying him a compliment, after all.

Davis was too busy gripping his wife's shoulder and looking her up and down to be impressed. "Are you okay, baby? Are you sure?"

She waved him off, and they both turned to Gabriel, who stood in awkward silence.

"Well. Ruth, it was nice to meet you. And... I'm glad you're all right," he took a step back toward the door. "Davis," he added, with a respectful nod.

Ruth's husband broke free from her hold and followed him to the door, his voice strained when he spoke. "I, uh... Thank you. For what you did for Ruthie." He held out his hand, and when Gabriel took it, he jerked him forward and gave him a quick pat on the back. "Must've been her guardian angel brought you to her," he said gruffly. Gabriel couldn't suppress his smile.

"I'm glad I could help." And it was true. Perpetrating good in the world according to God's word could only engender further fortune. Karma was as good a word for it as any. Davis let him go, and Gabriel stepped back out into the rain, only at the last minute thinking to ask. "Davis?" The man regarded him. "Do you know where I could find a place called Gloria's?"

"Sure do. About five blocks north a herr, two blocks east. Cain't miss it."

"Thanks." Gabriel held up his hand in farewell peering through the glass door to make sure Ruth saw him and started off.

"God bless!" Davis called after him.

  
XX

  
Step. Step. Step. Turn. Step. Step. Step. Turn.

Dean had been pacing since Gabriel left. They hadn't stopped to grab any newspapers, so all they had was the computer, which Sam had already claimed. Dean's shoulders felt tight enough to snap, and an emptiness yawned inside of him that might have been hunger, could have been dread. As he turned and started for the window, a lightning bolt shot down in the distance. He watched it flash, arc, and vanish, and then counted for the thunder.

Ten seconds.

Two miles.

Wasn't a bolt yet that was over three.

Dean's eyes darted as he turned. This feeling of being just too slow washed over him, and he stalked angrily back toward the bathroom, crushing his crossed arms against his chest. When he was halfway back, he heard Sam sigh in irritation.

"Will you stop?" His brother said.

Dean stopped, turned, and glared at him. Sam glared right back.

With a shake of his head, Dean relented and turned his attention back out the window. "I can't."

Sam spoke gently. "I know you're worri--"

"It isn't that. It's"--he shook himself lightly in frustration--"he's everywhere, Sam. I can feel him, everywhere. It's like... seeing something out of the corner of your eye, that ain't there when you look. And I can't--" Words failed, and he just shook his head more. "Can't fucking stand it," is what he wanted to say. Dean glanced over his shoulder and met his brother's sorrowful gaze, which he appreciated, but wasn't really helping.

Dean looked away, back out the window at the storm and lightning. "Just keep looking."

  
It took another fifteen minutes before Sam called him over.

"Here, take a look a look at this." He waved him toward the screen.

Dean prowled over and leaned in. Sam had a weather site pulled up in the background and a video loaded into the media player. He hit play.

"It's a radar time lapse of the storm since last week. At first, just your average thunderstorm, right? Then overnight..." He motioned.

In a matter of seconds, the radar scan turned from greens and yellows to an angry red that had doubled in size.

Dean grimaced.

"I got satellite, too," Sam went on. "The clouds just appear and start circling like a hurricane." He clicked to another window and played the satellite video.

Dean watched as the normal conglomeration of cloud cover took on a sudden, organized spiral. Grays, whites, and blacks faded up and over its surface.

"Stop!" he said suddenly, leaning in over Sam's shoulder. He scrutinized the screen. "Rewind it."

Sam spared him a curious look but pulled the video back a few seconds.

"Can you run it slowly?" Dean asked.

"Sure." Sam hit a few keys and let the video chug forward at half speed.

Dean's hand hovered near the screen, tense. "There! Stop!"

Sam paused it and stared at the image. "I don't--"

"In the white"--Dean traced out lines on the screen--"you see that?"

Sam followed his finger, tilted his head, and it suddenly came into focus. His puzzled expression gave way to revelation. "I can't believe I missed that. Wh--"

But Dean was already moving across the room and digging through his bag for Dad's journal.

"I know I've seen that before," he muttered, flipping furiously through pages. It was a wonder he hadn't memorized every scratch and page number.

He stopped, and Sam straightened in his chair. Dean's eyes scanned down the page, his expression hardening with each line. When he handed the book to Sam, he wore a mask of stone.

"Symbol for Inanna," Dean said, his voice flat.

"Which is who?" Sam glanced down at the page.

"Demon of torment," Dean supplied, and Sam was looking up at him with a cautious terror. Dean pressed his lips into a thin line. "Never met."

With a sudden rush of guilt, Sam bent over the journal to read.

"Used to be some kind of fertility goddess or something," Dean went on. "But according to that, she now has a thing for the undead."

"Zombies?" Sam asked with a lip curl of disgust.

"Total George A. Romero fan."

With a sigh, Sam carefully closed the journal and looked back at the computer screen to think. Dean watched the gears turning. He could always tell when Sam was contemplating by the way he drifted off into space.

"What is it?"

Sam sighed again. "This storm... it's been going on for a week, right?" Worry and dread started to coil in Sam's stomach like a cold snake. He met Dean's gaze. "That has to take a tremendous amount of power, just to keep it going. And then to form the _clouds_ into a symbol? I mean that's... that's exactly what Gabriel said, controlling the forces of nature."

Dean nodded slightly. "Yeah..."

"That's beyond badass, Dean."

"I know." Dean answered darkly and turned away. What Sam was _really_ trying to tell him was that it was beyond his hinky demon-boy powers to kill. They were outclassed. Dean stared out at the pounding rain. A sudden loud spray coated the window, and his heart stirred in fear and recognition. His arms bristled with the feeling of Castiel, everywhere. "But..." He controlled his breathing, spoke in a growl. He wasn't even sure of it until he said it. "I don't think it's her power." Over his shoulder he could see Sam's face switch from confusion to thoughtfulness to...

"Castiel," Sam breathed.

"Fits what we know. She may not have the mojo, but with an angel? Got her own Energizer Bunny."

"But how would she--"

"How else?" Dean cut him off. "Demon of torment, Sammy," Dean whispered, and he discovered how much more his body could ache.

  
XX

  
Castiel railed. Dried salt streaked his cheeks, as he had run out of tears. And he bloodied his fists against the walls of his cage, pounding the air as though he struck bricks. His rage and hate poured out and rose like incense to the symbols on the ceiling. Passed out into the storm.

He threw his shoulder into the Cage and pushed, threw himself a second time and strained every muscle until his foot slipped, touched blood, and he fell. He bared his teeth at Inanna's light laughter, and his slender chest heaved.

It had been the young man.

Seth had hauled him stumbling to his feet. He'd flinched when his shirt was grabbed and tried to twist away. Yelped when Seth's fist sent him sprawling to the floor. Castiel had turned horrified eyes toward Inanna, but all he could see through the glare of the lights were her red lips drawn into a smile. He felt her grip, but the young man's surprised gasp and moan called his attention back. Seth had drawn him up to standing again and then punched, so his head snapped back and he sagged in the demon's grip.

His cheek and lip bled as he was ushered on unsure feet toward the edge of the Cage and thrust in. Castiel had tried to catch him--it was what he wanted his body to do. Instead, he watched his own fist dart out and catch the other cheek.

With a sharp cry, the boy went down and covered his head with his hands. He was maybe old enough to drink.  
_  
No, God help me, not another._

The young man had looked up, his face red, eyes glassy with tears. Blue eyes, like Castiel's own. Dark hair, like Sam's. He scuttled back, holding one hand up in supplication.

Castiel looked into those terrified eyes and knew despair. "I'm sorry," he managed to say over choking sorrow.

The boy sucked in gasps and licked his lips as a tear rolled down either side of his face. He motioned, pressing his outstretched hand as though to keep Castiel at bay. "Look..." He had moved back and then grabbed at his shirt, pulling it off with jerky motions.

Castiel moved closer and started to kneel.

Unable to see for the blur of tears, the young man struggled out of his pants and briefs. Laid himself bare. His eyes rolled when Castiel's hand closer over his ankle. "Please," through a thick, shaky voice. "Please, you don't have to kill me." Still his hand out, pleading.

Castiel's bones felt sharp and cutting. Surely his ribs pierced his lungs as he sobbed out a breath. He could not stop his hand from stroking the young man's leg, but he looked at him with as much apology as would shine through blue eyes. "I do not want to," he said brokenly.

Castiel's hands ran up the young man's legs like he owned him, ran thumbs along soft inner flesh. The boy jerked. Bit his lip and stilled himself, quietly squeezed out a tear. Tried to be brave, though he trembled and flinched when fingers touched his testicles, grabbed his sex, and then moved on. "W-will it..." He swallowed and forced out unsteady words. "Will it hurt less if I... don't struggle?" The last came out brittle.

_Mary, Mother of God._ Castiel's heart spilled from chest with his tears. He shook his head as much as he was able and mouthed the words once before they found voice. "I don't know."

The young man's face had crumpled.

Castiel's hand moved from stroking his leg to rolling him over. He hauled him up onto his knees with a quick pull on his hips, and then grabbed one wrist and twisted it, pinning it on the boy's back, eliciting a short cry. The young man's shoulders shook. Castiel's free hand skimmed his ass, ran down a trembling thigh that jumped beneath his touch. No amount of distracted thinking had denied Inanna her will; the angel was rock hard and ready, even if he could not want anything less than to do this. Would tear out his own feathers first.

The image burned into eyes that he would remember always: The way the boy's hand in his grip had pulsed into a fist with the first thrust.

Hot, tight, Castiel felt the pleasure of it, even as he wished for it to stop. A moan escaped, and he burned with shame. Still his body drove.

The boy had stifled screams behind bitten lips. Beaten his fist against the floor as his body was torn inside until lubricated with blood. He had resisted crying out until Castiel's body hit so hard the sound was knocked, startled from his throat.

He had not struggled.

The angel wished with all his being that he had, for it was a fruitless surrender. His bravery deserved better.

Castiel had stroked into him and stayed buried, coming to a sudden stop that left them both gasping on the edge of dread. He could hear the boy's short, pained breaths. His own heavy draughts. They waited.

And it was not long. A quick shove and the boy had hit the concrete with a grunt. Castiel was holding him down. And then pulling on the arm pinned up on his back. Pulling until there was a shriek of agony--bucking and kicking, clawing at the floor. _Stopstopstop._ Pulling until a bone broke and screams were the only sound of his victim, of those who watched. _OhgodStop!_ Until tendons and muscle tore through and a boy became spasming pieces of dying flesh.

His broken body, an angel cradled and rocked.

His eyes, fallen shuttered and dim.

His blood, Castiel had slipped in.

For him, an angel had run out of tears.


	7. Chapter 7

"Well," Sam peered at the screen in front of him, reading aloud in his lecturer voice. "According to this, the symbol in the clouds, Inanna's Star, is also called the Tormented Eye-"

"Course it is."

"And it is most definitely used to raise the undead."

"Fantastic." Dean's voice dripped with sarcasm, and one eyebrow lifted with derision.

Sam went on, "Inanna was once an--" He stopped.

"What?" Dean perked and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.

The younger brother took a breath and started the sentence over. "Inanna was once an _angel_, according to legend the first lover of Lucifer and the object of affection of a number of angels. She usurped God’s place in their hearts, gathering a cadre of lovers who were loyal to her above all else. This degree of free will was unacceptable given God’s further Plan for his angels after the creation of man. When Lucifer raised his sword against God, Inanna joined him to fight against the Father who spited her for the joy she had shared with others of her kind. As with the other angels who fell, Inanna was cast down to Hell to live in eternal torment. She vowed revenge upon humanity, for having usurped the angels' place as God's favorites. Specifically, her symbol grants the invoker the ability to imbue a human corpse with a soul in torment, which has been driven insane by an insatiable hunger. These zombies will attempt to eat human flesh and, specifically, human brains in an effort to feed their hunger and regain their lost humanity."

Sam ceased reading and started to scroll down for more.

FLASH!

Thunder.

The Winchesters jumped and were suddenly in darkness.

"Oh, c'mon!" Sam whined. His face was illuminated by the dim light of the laptop screen.

Lightning had struck out in the parking lot. Dean hurriedly pulled open the door and peered out. The motel sign was dark, as was every other building he could see.

"Looks like it's at least this whole block," he called back over his shoulder and then shut the storm back outside their room. When he turned, he could just make out Sam's shadow bending over a bag on the floor.

"Did you see a Starbucks on our way in?" Sam asked in Dean's general direction. He scrounged for his coat on the bed and then hefted the laptop bag.

"Starbucks? What... you need an emergency latte?" Dean followed Sam's lead, albeit slowly, sliding into his coat with skepticism.

Sam huffed impatiently and motioned wide toward the room. "The power's out, Dean! No power means no Internet."

"Right," Dean grumbled, chagrined. He should've known that. Starbucks... he scratched at his head. "Yeah, I think I saw one a couple of blocks from here. It might be far enough to still have juice."

  
XX

  
"Will that be all?" The barista raised her eyes from the screen and looked directly at Sam. She was nearly his height, and the novelty of looking a woman in the eyes had him fumbling for his words.

"I... uhh..." He blinked, feeling a hot blush building, and turned to find his brother. "Dean! You want anything?"

Dean glanced up from his book and waved dismissively.

A small hope Sam hadn't knowingly been harboring fluttered and fell in response to the wave. He felt its loss as a twinge in his chest and turned back to the barista with worry furrowing his brow. He pressed his lips together in a moment of indecision. Then, "You know what? Can you give me one of those doughnuts, too?"

He returned to their table with two ventis, one topped with a plate and doughnut. He set one cup next to the laptop and pushed the other items in Dean's direction.

Dean's glance tracked the plate and continued on up to his brother's anxious expression.

"Thought I--"

"I want you to eat it." Sam said evenly. He flexed his jaw and refused to look away from Dean's increasingly withering gaze. It felt light and skittish, this defiance. Wrong, but necessary, and he wasn't one to back down when he thought he was right. Never was, even less so now. If Dean didn't start eating _something_, he wasn't going to be able to hunt; hell, he wasn't going to be able to get up in the morning. Already, he seemed slower than usual, distracted. Or maybe that was Castiel. Still, Dean needed him to be strong about this, to take care. He softened his expression while tightening his resolve.

It was a flat out staring contest; Dean relented first, sagging slightly. With a longsuffering roll of his eyes, he reached out and tore a bit of the doughnut off. Sam watched, hawklike, as his brother chewed and swallowed and offered an annoyed, fake smile.

Well, it was something. Sam shifted uncomfortably and opened the laptop to get to work. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dean reach for the coffee cup and tried to hide a smirk of satisfaction.

"What's this?" Dean asked with obvious disdain.

"An americano." Sam scrolled through some text, searching for any ritual involving the Tormented Eye.

"What's _that_?"

"Espresso and hot water." Sam glanced up over the screen to see his brother scowling.

"Doesn't that just make it... coffee?" Dean asked, sneering at the cup like it might bite him.

"Sort of." _If you'd stop living like a trucker, you'd know._

"I hate their coffee."

Sam felt his blood pressure spike. "I _know_. Which is why I got you the amer--" He stopped before he got too bitchy. "Will you just drink it?"

Dean's mouth curled into a half-smirk. "Chill, Princess." And he took a tentative sip.

Sam sighed dramatically and went back to reading, keeping one eye on the ritual descriptions and one on the doughnut. Every time Dean picked off a piece, a bit of the sick tension in his gut eased. But it wasn't enough. And he was at a loss.

  
Dean stared out the window of the Starbucks, the demonology book he was reading sitting closed in his lap. Nothing useful—nothing they didn't already know. Lightning struck the ground, he counted the seconds. Another. He counted the seconds.

"This doesn't make any sense," Sam said at last.

Dean glanced at him.

"The symbol, a source of magical power, the proper incantation, and a blood sacrifice. All the rituals say the same thing," Sam said in frustration.

"So?"

"So... what's missing? The storm's been raging for a week, already."

His real meaning was between the lines. "So why aren't we ass deep in zombies," Dean intoned, nodding.

Sam bobbed his head. "There are at least seven cemeteries within city limits. She could have... thousands by now. Maybe more."

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but his voice was lost in a crack of thunder that rattled the windows. He looked out into the storm. More lightning, quick and fast, followed by thunder that tumbled over itself to shake the earth and air. Something... Dean frowned.

"What?" Sam watched his brother's expression reflected in the glass.

"Whole time we've been here, there hasn't been a lightning strike more than two miles away."

Sam absorbed that and tried to follow Dean's thinking. "Okay..."

"I don't know." Dean felt jigsaw pieces float and settle. "Something's not right about the lightning." He thought for another moment and then looked at Sam. "Can you find a map of all the places lightning has hit?"

"Sure," Sam replied, though he didn't quite get what Dean was driving at. Didn't get it, that is, until he pulled up the previous three days' worth of charts.

Sam's eyes grew wider as Dean watched with dread anticipation. "Sam, I'm dyin' over here!" he said at last, unable to see that terrified expression for one more second without knowing why. Sam glanced at him once, quickly, and then started pounding on the keys.

"One sec."

"Sam."

"One sec!" Sam tapped the keyboard and then turned the laptop around. "Last seven days' worth of lightning strikes," he said in a hollow voice. It was the voice in which you told a mother her child was dead.

Bony, cold fingers slithered down Dean's spine at the image. The city of Charlotte was overlaid with a nearly complete sigil. "That's a voodoo death curse," Dean said just above a whisper. The air grew heavy and hard to breathe. His hand on the coffee cup went slack despite a sudden need for heat.

"I don't think she's after the cemeteries," Sam muttered. He bent forward to shield their conversation from surrounding, ignorant ears.

Dean gave both the screen and his brother a small, awe-struck shake of the head. "There've got to be a half million people in this city."

Sam nodded, his face practically a drama mask of worry. He picked his words carefully, as though the right ones could capture the enormity of the threat. "This isn't about just finding Castiel anymore, Dean."

"I know," the elder brother replied. He held his face in his hand for a second, trying to hold everything in, to stitch himself together so they could tackle this like they tackled everything. A whole _city_. Half a _million_ people. Somehow, that managed to be more real than the Apocalypse, and all the more terrifying for being a number you could almost touch. Two men. One angel. Or more zombies than anyone had ever seen. No pressure. He dropped his hand and dug into his pocket.

"What are you doing?"

Dean produced his cell phone. "Calling Gabriel."

  
XX

  
Davis's directions had been simple enough to follow. Gabriel slipped quickly through the rain and wind, stalking the streets as though he owned every speck under his gaze. As he turned a corner, the sign for Gloria's lit the night, and he slowed to assess.

The parking lot was filled with cop cars as Ruth had implied it would be. Gabriel moved closer, hugging himself into the shadows of the surrounding buildings and skulking behind the thin decorative trees that bordered the lot. The rain hit with the sound of crashing waves, pinging off the metal car rooves. It was the only sound, save the growls of thunder.

If his suspicions proved correct, the police force had been infiltrated by demons. And if so, they would be able to detect a celestial of his caliber at a distance. Gabriel paused in his approach and drew in his aura as much as he could. He imagined compacting his presence down and squeezing it into a box. In echoed movement, his muscled tightened to draw his body in, hunch his shoulders, and bind up his back with tension. His true self strained against the confines of his vessel; his vessel strained to hold him in. He was as undetectable as he was going to get.

The archangel crouched between two police cruisers and peered in through the diner's large glass windows. He had expected to see the uniformed policemen, chatting, laughing, saluting each other with bottles of beer. He had not expected to see Ruby among them, her eyes dancing, her fingers stepping up the side of one officer's face. She raked her other hand through the short-cropped hair of a second man and received a more than appreciative smile.

Gabriel watched her slide into a booth and onto the lap of a young policeman. She cradled his face, pulling him right up to her breasts, and then peered at the others, speaking even as she stroked her chosen. It sparked an irrational bit of outrage in Gabriel's chest on Sam's behalf. But he continued to watch as she leaned toward the other officers, touched their faces, and smiled a seductive promising smile.

At length, he saw her kiss the man she was sitting on, and for an instant, the man's eyes flashed black. _Ruby, you are a good, naughty girl, _Gabriel thought and grinned. Ruby was getting up, taking a swig from one of the beer bottles, and then heading for the door. Gabriel darted from between the cars and flattened himself against the side of the restaurant in the cover of shadows.

"Ruby!" he hissed and watched her jump.

She gave the darkness a wary, searching stare, holding a hand to her forehead to counter the rain. Her nostrils flared as she drew a breath, and then her eyes narrowed. She paced toward him, hair whipping wet in a gust of wind.

"Hey, Gabe." She crossed her arms defensively. "Are you always gonna be a step behind?"

The angel ignored her petty jibes. "Were they all demons?"

She shrugged, water running like tears down her face. "Maybe."

Gabriel sighed in frustration. "Do they know?"

"Know what? That you're out here hiding in the bushes?"

"About Castiel!" he replied with a swell of annoyance. "Do they know where he is?" He shook already from the effort to contain his presence; the waver in his voice was surely due to that.

Despite the darkness, Ruby could make out his form. He seemed bent, lesser. She took a step forward, lifting her chin. "Maybe. Question is why should I tell you if they do?"

He allowed her the defiance, small though it may have been. He waited for a sudden roil of thunder to pass over them before replying, grinding out his words. "I didn't smite you when I had the chance. I'm not smiting you now, either." It sounded good, sounded properly Heavenly Threatening. But it wasn't why. A bit of Gabriel's control buckled at the sharp pain that welled in the center of his chest. Ruby gasped at the sudden and wild crash of his unfocused power. Gabriel flinched as the rain struck his skin for the first time. He lifted his head and opened his mouth to catch a few falling drops, streams of water coursing down his face. He looked back at her, suddenly no more immune to the maelstrom than she was. Brokenly, "Because the rain is full of his tears. Because you are the only one I can ask." She almost couldn't hear him over the ambient noise.

Ruby's mouth moved in shock. She tried to speak but had to clear her throat and try again. "This is much bigger than just your brother," she managed.

A ring pierced the night.

Gabriel quickly dug into his jacket pocket and produced Sam's cell phone. With a glance to Ruby, he hit the green button and answered. Dean's voice, telling him they know what's going on, asking him to come to their location.

"We'll be right there," the archangel replied and ended the call before Dean could ask who "we" might be. He looked down at Ruby, whose eyes were wide with questions. Before she could try to voice any of them, he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and loosened some of his power. The storm became suddenly a thing outside with no more power to touch them than humans had to sprout wings.

Ruby looked sharply at his hand with a sudden horror in her eyes.

Gabriel willed it, and they were gone.

  
XX

  
Sam's face flickered, and the Winchesters moved as one, from sitting to standing ready in the space of a heartbeat. Dean spun just in time to see Ruby rush by, holding her hand to her mouth like she was trying not to hurl. He watched her with a quizzical eye as Sam crushed her into a hug and then looked up at Gabriel as he entered the coffee shop. The angel looked like he'd stepped on a kitten. His eyes went quickly and guiltily in Ruby's direction.

Dean directed his attention back to Lady Demon Hotpants and his brother. The crease in Sam's brow spoke volumes of bad.

Ruby pulled out of the embrace and turned, letting her hand fall. She still looked a little green. "Don't you _ever_ do that again," she said shakily. Sam ran a hand over her wet hair, trying his best not to say something he'd regret.

Gabriel hung his head further and dug his hands into his pockets in an insanely human gesture. And suddenly Dean understood. He snorted a short laugh to get the angel's attention. "Guess not everyone can ride angel airlines, huh?"

"I didn't think it would make her ill," Gabriel admitted, looking miserable.

Dean glanced at his brother. Relaxed stance, concerned face. He bought the apology in the archangel's unfathomable eyes, which meant there wouldn't be a thrown down in the middle of a Starbucks after all, thank God. It was difficult _not_ to buy, actually, given those eyes. Almost as disarming as Sam's.

"Well, at least it got you here fast," Dean offered. He looked around at the shop and its quietly talking inhabitants and then to his companions. "Thinkin' maybe we should take this to the car." Not that the locals wouldn't find out what was up if they failed, but things got more complicated when well meaning citizens called the cops on a bunch of strangers talking about demons and witchcraft.

Sam grabbed their gear and Dean even swiped his "americano" up as they left. Stupid name for a drink. Like Americans invented watering down the good stuff. Once safely behind the Impala's glass and metal walls, Sam and Ruby in the back, Dean and Gabriel in the front, Sam nearly bubbled over.

"We know what's going on." All eyes turned his way. "The demon's name is Inanna." He looked at Gabriel expecting some sign of recognition. The angel's expression fell in due accord, looking pained and resigned at once. "She's marking the city for death with lightning strikes, though it isn't complete. And she's already marked it with a Tormented Eye to raise all the dead into zombies once the death curse hits."

It sounded almost as ludicrous as finding out that the Apocalypse started and ended with you. Only, you know, with more zombies.

Sam went on. "The only thing we don't know is where she's hiding out. But if we don't find--"

"I know." Ruby looked over at Sam.

His eyebrows shot up. "You know... what? Where she is?"

Demon Hotpants nodded, and Dean could almost have actually hugged her. His pulse jumped at the idea that they were close, really _close_ to finding Cas alive. Suddenly, his heart was pounding against his ribs. "Where?" he blurted. Hope and anxiety must have laced his tone from the look Ruby gave him.

"You need to head out to Myers Park. There's a house on Bucknell Avenue... They said I'll know it when I see it."

Dean turned around and grabbed for the keys. "Then that's where we're going."

"Right now?" Ruby said over the roar of the engine. "Into a demon's nest, right now." _Just throw yourself off a cliff why don't you.  
_  
Dean looked meaningfully at Gabriel, then in the rearview mirror. "I'm thinking we've got it covered."

Sam squeezed Ruby's arm. "And I'm still pretty strong myself," he added, but she was shaking her head.

"They've got the place warded against angels. The Host would've found them already if they hadn't."

"So we break the ward," Dean replied. "How hard can it be?"

Ruby rolled her eyes. "Not very _if_ you're already inside and not getting your ass kicked. You need to recite an incantation and clean off the blood they'll have put around the door. Even if you don't get all of it, it should weaken the ward enough for"--she spit the word--"him to get in." She motioned her chin in Gabriel's direction. The angel looked away.

Dean glanced in the mirror and then turned in the seat to get a direct read. He narrowed his eyes. "I'm sensing a 'but.'"

Her smile was more of a smirk. "_But_ there's going to be some strong demons in there. Featherhead can exorcise them. So can Sam..."

Dean's gut clenched. "I'm the weakest link." Deflated, he righted himself and sank down into the seat. _Of course. Useless._ He wondered why for a moment he even thought it could be otherwise. No one spoke in the moments that followed, Sam out of sympathy, Ruby, well, who the hell knew. Dean felt weight shift beside him and then a hand on his shoulder. It was warm, even though his coat. He lifted downcast eyes to Gabriel.

"You can use my sword," the archangel said.

Dean blinked. His sword. The covered in blue fire, Holy Warrior of God sword? "Won't that leave you weaponless?"

A kind grin and a slight squeeze on his shoulder. "I'll manage." Gabriel removed his hand and looked out the windshield. "But I want it back."

Dean pressed his lips together to keep from smiling with childish triumph and regarded Ruby in the mirror. "Anything else?"

She shrugged. "Try not to die."


	8. Chapter 8

The demons hadn't lied, which really contradicted one of the basic truths about demons, but what could you do? Ruby had been able to pinpoint the house they wanted as soon as she laid eyes on it. She'd said something about a heavy aura, which made Dean picture stink lines coming off it like in cartoons. It was a white structure, though it glowed orange in the only available light, with three stories and an attic set right off the main road. It carried itself with an aged dignity, as though its floorboards creaked with a southern drawl that the young cookie cutter neighbors could only imitate in farce. One side of the porch had a swing, and there were wildly growing trees and bushes tucked in close to the walls. The front door opened northwest, granting a picturesque view of a park across the street and large oak tree that had been greeting inhabitants for some hundred years.

Streetlights struggled to push back the darkness, clouds, and rain, but they met with little success. Their glow shrank, defeated, so that they resembled flickering candles instead of monuments to even modern man's perpetual fear of the dark. The Winchesters and their companions skirted the circles of light and drew themselves up alongside the old house.

Dean kept the incantation Ruby had given him looping in his head as he crouched amongst wet bushes by the porch. He had turpentine and a rag in one hand and kept the other free so he could scale the railing. He'd brought his pistol, just 'cause nobody liked getting shot in the eye, and a small knife, because a hunter was always prepared. Sam stood beside him, reaching for the railing and trying to find a good foothold. Gabriel could just as easily have stayed in the car, but he protested letting them go alone and so stood bone dry behind the both of them, trying to haul his presence in as much as possible. The physical manifestation of his effort had him hugging himself tightly, as though he were freezing. It was kinda pathetic. As planned, Ruby approached the front door, wearing her black demon eyes for maximum effect.

They all tensed as her feet clomped on the steps. She tossed her hair to fling off some of the water and knocked loudly on the heavy door. She braced one hand against the door frame and planted the other on her cocked hip, letting the lines of her body align into allure. Somehow she made the drowned rat thing look sexy. For a minute, it looked like she'd have to knock again, but she saw the handle jiggle and finally turn. She kept her eyes downcast as the door swung open, and then lifted them slowly to look through long lashes.

The demon who greeted her had taken up residence in a trucker, an older one with more gut than brains and a wardrobe full of flannel.

"What do you want?" he grunted.

"Good food and a good time," Ruby lilted back, lifting her full lips in a smile.

"We ain't—"

"You know what I want," Ruby said, shifting her stance so she stood straighter. She motioned with her head. "I want in. On Inanna's showstopper."

The shift was the signal. Silent, Sam swung himself up and over the railing, pressing right up against the wooden siding.

The trucker demon chuckled like shook gravel. "You and every two-bit demon in this town. What makes you think you're special?" He leaned forward, shoving his grizzled face in hers.

Ruby placed a hand lightly on his cheek. "Oh," she said with a sweet smile. "I'm special. Might even say, I always come prepared." She puckered her lips and kissed at the air.

Sam attacked like a viper. One second he was pressed against the wall, and the next he was in the doorway, thrusting a blast of his power in the demon's direction. The trucker had time to howl and stumble back before Sam's control truly took hold.

As Sam did his demon puppetmaster deal, Dean scaled the porch, sloshing a bit of turpentine from the open bottle. Sam and Ruby stormed through the door, shoving the trucker back, and Dean came swiftly after them. He soaked the rag in the cleaner and swiped furiously around the door frame as he kept his litany going to preserve the spell. Behind him, the trucker cried out louder as Sammy turned on the juice.

Sam held his hand in the air, palm toward his foe, and let power rush through his veins. It bubbled inside like tar and burned down his arms, but it felt good and thick. He could feel the demon's darkness, and he wrapped it with his own. His heart pumped anger madly, and releasing it felt like glee.

The trucker staggered and sank to his knees as Sam squeezed. With quick steps, he bore down and slowly, purposefully, closed his open palm into a fist. The demon tried to scream, but Ruby was suddenly there, clamping a hand over his mouth. He thrashed and clawed at her arm, eyes rolling and body spasming beyond his control. His essence flickered under the onslaught, crumpled. Sam's fist vibrated with effort until he felt the last morsels of the soul turn to powder.

The body slumped from Ruby's grasp. Sam dropped his hand.

Behind them, Dean said aloud, _"Exi, macula exitiosa, inquam, exi!"_ and set the turpentine down.

A slight ruffle a feathers accompanied Gabriel as he appeared just inside the doorway next to Dean.

"Guess that worked," Dean muttered with a slight smirk.

The archangel stood poised for a fight, his eyes surveying the living room into which he had stepped. The house had been remade for this purpose. There wasn't a stick of furniture in the living space, not a decoration on the walls—except for the demonic symbols painted in what could only be blood. In great swirling arcs, they covered the walls, the floors, the ceiling. Black candles lined the baseboard, providing ample but eerie light.

Gabriel offered a slight nod to Sam for his successful kill and turned slowly to Dean. He lifted his right hand a little and opened his fingers wide. As he closed them and issued a force of will, his sword appeared in his grip, plucked from the very air. Deftly, he swung it up in his hands, supporting the hilt and blade on his fingers, and held it out in offering.

Dean's eyes flicked over the burning blade. "You realize it's on fire, right?"

Gabriel half-grinned. "It won't burn the righteous," he said, and offered the sword again.

Before his lizard brain could tell him otherwise, Dean closed his hand around the hilt. The blue flames spread over the back of his hand as though they were a mirage. They felt like nothing, like air; unlike the sword itself, which felt a whole lot heavier than air. He hefted it, backed up to make room, and tried swinging it. Something about holding a blazing sword felt incredibly badass, he had to admit. Stand and look menacing? No problem. But sword fighting hadn't exactly been part of John Winchester's boot camp for boys.

"Not sure I know how to use this," Dean admitted and gave Gabriel a worried look.

The angel arched an eyebrow back. "Can you fight with a knife?"

"Psh. Yeah." Dean tried not to look too offended.

Gabriel turned away, driving his attention into the house. "It is a very big knife," he said, and walked away without waiting for Dean to respond.

Dean tracked his back, lips pursed in a deadpan expression. _Ha. Ha. Stupid angel._ Then he started after him, falling in next to Sam. Ruby followed last.

The brothers stepped over the trucker's corpse, doing their best to move in silence. Dean's breath rushing in his ears sounded like a tornado compared to the stillness of the house. He tested the weight of the sword again, trying to find the right grip. Pointy end goes in the other guy, how hard could that be?

In front of them, Gabriel came to a stop and cocked his head. The Winchesters watched with lively fear and anticipation winding like a windlass.

Just as Dean was about to ask what it was, the archangel turned enough to see them and whispered, "There's chanting. They maintain the spell."

The brothers nodded.

"Are you ready?"

"As we'll ever be," Sam muttered back.

"Brace yourselves."

It took a second before they knew what they were bracing themselves _for_, but then it hit. The aura of raw power and mountainous danger sliced sharply on their skin. Gabriel's presence was an assault on their bodies, a thunderousness, a felt sound that made soft tissue vibrate—like heavy bass at a rock concert. They both shivered at the sudden racing of their hearts and sweat on their palms. The air thickened with water and smelled like leaves. Adrenaline suddenly exploded through their systems, making the urge to run nearly impossible to fight. In compromise, the Winchesters moved back.

Dean sniffed deeply and let his breath out slow. There was no way the demons didn't know they were here now. He glanced at Sam, who was working his shocked fear into a scowl.

_Breathe_, he told himself. _Just breathe._

Then Gabriel was moving forward, not stalking through the hall and into the kitchen but storming, nearly tearing the air around him with the force of his presence. The brothers kept pace. Beyond the kitchen was a dining room with a sliding door. At least it had been a sliding door. A flick of the archangel's fingers, and the house was filled with a cracking and splintering of wood. The door flew inward, smashing a chanting demon into the wall.

The room erupted in sudden chaos.

Twelve demons in dark robes stood around a dining room table turned altar. A map of the city was spread open, with the voodoo curse traced out in blood. Their chant ended with an enraged holler and power began to fly.

Gabriel and Dean went right; Sam left. Ruby hung back.

The archangel's first punch sent a demon aloft and into the wall with a crack. Just clearing space. Next, a left that connected to another's jaw and flattened him to the wall with supernatural force. Violence loosened Gabriel's muscles, flushed his human body with excitement. These were true foes, and he could let his spirit roar, fight like he was meant to fight, fulfill the destiny God had crafted him for. A demon threw energy his way, trying to toss him. It bounced off the Legatus like a tossed doll, and the demon's shock gave Gabriel the only opening he needed.

He rushed, ducked a punch, and slammed a hand against the demon's forehead for smiting. It screamed under his power. He pressed the shrieking man against the wall to keep him still and let anger guide the cleansing.

To the left. A blur of black. Gabriel flung his free hand wide and snatched the newest attacker in a web of power—held him in place by the throat with a thought. While one demon jerked in death throes, the other struggled to pry himself free.

As one of the demons tossed aside in Gabriel's wake hit the wall, Dean made his attack. Quick and dirty, he gripped the sword hilt with both hands and shoved forward, aiming straight for the demon's chest. He felt the blade hit flesh and sink in with a series of punctuated cracks as rib bones snapped. The woman under the black robe let out a scream as the sword's blue flames ignited her demonic soul.

Which presented an interesting question. How was the sword supposed to do its thing? Did he leave it in? Was a touch of the holy fire enough to kill a demon outright? Dean leaned in harder on the blade, driving the tip into the wall at the demon's back. Better overkill than under.

A calculated move, but a mistake.

A robed demon across the table struck out with a whip of telekinetic power, and Dean was ripped from the floor. The hilt opened slices down his palms as he was torn away and flung. And he cracked his head hard when he landed.

For a second, all he saw were feet, and he instinctively rolled under the table to get himself out of the way. He heaved as black spots blotted out his vision and crouched like a cat, prepared to bolt as soon as he was good enough to see. Around him, demons roared their fury and screamed as they died.

He blinked; he made a run for it.

Gabriel's sword still blazed where it had been, impaled through a demon and into the wall. He closed a hand around the hilt and drew the sword out of body and wood like a young King Arthur. Another dead demon lay beside his kill where previously there had been none. He looked, and Gabriel was again dealing with two foes, though he was all deadly concentration and effusive power.

Sam, then. Dean spun and found his brother backed into a corner, both hands held out either to keep the demons at bay or rip apart their souls. The way they kept flinching and reacting in tandem made him think a little of both.

He gripped the sword hard and charged the length of the room. Calculated. A stab could hit Sam. A slash...

Dean raised the blade across his body and swung in a powerful arc, opening a deep gash through one of the demon's robes. A human would have fallen, spine cut, but the demon whirled, focused its black eyes on Dean, and launched himself. He came with a quick right hook. In a knife fight, Dean would have blocked the punch and driven the knife toward the gut.

The sword _was_ a really big knife.

He hopped just out of reach, held the blade out in front of himself with the tip aimed at the guy's middle, and let the demon's own momentum from the swing carry him into the blade. Once it had cut through skin and a little muscle, Dean lunged, driving it through and out the other side. As with the first, the flames burned out the demon's soul as efficiently as any exorcism.

Sam couldn't see quite what happened, but there had been two demons throwing power and punches in his direction, trapping him in a corner, and then there was one. He didn't stop to see where the other had gone, just gathered his strength and grasped the soul of his remaining opponent. With only one to focus on, he could squeeze the life out.

As the body fell, he looked for his brother. Dean kicked a corpse off his sword with one booted foot and looked up. Their gazes said it all: You okay? Peachy.

The quick assessment: five left.

Sam readied another shot of power, allowing the darkness within to flow to his fingertips. Dean started forward around the corner of the table, trying to bypass his brother and beat him to the fray.

But, two old demons coordinated their strike.

Dean felt it like a hammer to his chest. The air wheezed from his lungs as he hit the wall behind him. The power lifted him up by the throat, and he struggled against invisible hands trying to gasp and finding nothing. His muscles convulsed with the effort; he beat his free fist against the wall.

Sam hadn't prepared a defense. The demon's power thrust caught him before he could grab its soul, and like Dean, he was tossed. He grunted as he hit the wall. Started to curl his lip at the old man and build up enough energy to break himself free.

The Winchesters both kicked and clawed, Sam straining to use his powers. A third demon joined, and the younger brother felt pressure closing on his throat as well. Dean's body screamed for air. He beat the sword pommel against the wall in useless thrashing and thought briefly that his ribs would break from the pain and sharp panic. His lungs burned almost like hellfire, and he had a stabbing desperate moment of realization that hellfire was exactly where he was headed.

As the world blackened, he saw a tumultuous flapping of robes like scattered leaves, and the world spun.

Gabriel held a woman in a head lock, banishing the demon within. Even her enhanced strength was nothing against his might, and not a muscle budged as she kicked, pulled, clawed, and beat against him. A demon he had tossed over the table came around for a second try. With a careless flick, the archangel sent him back, sprawling on the floor.

He assessed the room with a glance. Sam and Dean both were in peril. Dean slumped and barely moved, the sword slipping from his hand. Sam's face had turned red, but he glared down his attackers.

Movement: the persistent demon again. Gabriel concentrated on the exorcism taking place in his arms, looked up at the charging foe, the brothers held trapped.

He let the demon come and instead threw a bolt of energy down the length of the room. It collided with the three demons holding the brothers and sent them slamming into the wall. Then with a graceful twist, Gabriel spun and snatched his attacker by the face.

The woman, dead, slipped from his grasp, and a smiting began anew.

Sam took full advantage of the break in the demon's grasp. Extracting was faster than killing, so he gripped the nearest demon's soul and began to reel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean drop to the floor in a heap. Panic shot to the very top of his head, spreading like cold water.

"Dean!" Flickering looks between demons and a fallen brother. Sam nudged him with his foot. "Dean!"

Dean groaned.

Sam's control over the one demon slipped, and the black smoke the old man had been spewing rushed back into his mouth.

"Dean, I need your help here!" The other two demons had recovered themselves. It was too much. Two had been too many to handle, three and they were doomed.

Sam's plea broke through Dean's hazy grip on consciousness. He looked up at a looming Sammy, then over at three robes. Had to move. Had to _fight_. For a moment, his limbs were too heavy. But he forced himself up, looking dazedly at the sword he had managed to keep.

He blinked and focused, staggering to his brother's side. "Line 'em up, Sam."

It took a second, but Sam caught his brother's plan. He switched targets and rather than extraction, used his powers to pull and shove. Two hit the wall together.

As Dean surged toward them, Sam grabbed the remaining demon and tightened a murderous grip on its soul.

For a minute, there was nothing but pained screaming and curses. Dean held the sword and leaned his weight in, just to be sure it speared both bodies. Sam watched his enemy's soul flash and die. Gabriel dropped another dead body to the floor.

Silence fell, and Dean jerked Gabriel's sword out of the slain. He panted and swiped a hand over his face to clear away the sweat.

"Now they _definitely_ know we're here," he muttered, glancing at the other two.

Sam scowled, shaking slightly with the effort to control the power within him that enjoyed the slaughter just a tad too much. He wanted something else to kill, and quickly, and the realization left him unsettled.

Gabriel stalked around the table and over the dead with a detached calm. He touched the blood-marked map on the table with his fingertips, and the whole thing was instantly on fire. The Winchesters watched in silence.

Then, "Sam..." Ruby's voice. She stood in the doorway staring straight out the back windows.

All three men looked at her and then followed her gaze.

"I think I know where your angel's being held."

  
During the fight, the blinds had fallen from the windows, revealing the back yard beyond. Set into the ground was a domed skylight, and bright light illuminated the glass.

Dean stared, trying to imagine what went on underneath that glass, trying harder not to imagine it. Slowly, he turned to find Gabriel already gazing at him, shocking his insides with that deep regard.

The archangel never moved or glanced away. "There are more coming," he said. Could have been clairvoyance. Maybe he could just feel their demonic stink.

Dean averted his eyes and looked instead at Sam. His brother had recovered himself, standing tall and calm. He wore one of his worried looks, but not one of his _really_ worried looks, so probably he was okay. Probably.

Gabriel turned on his heel and addressed Ruby. "Get inside." He pointed to a far corner of the room.

For a second, resentment flashed across her face and she was about to tell him what he could do with his orders, but his glare was one of royalty, his tone the bark of a general. And he'd just cleared half a room of demons on his own. She relented and picked her way over to a safe spot.

The archangel approached the doorway and stopped about two feet away. He shoved the table behind his back with one hand and surveyed his flanks. "One of you stand on either side." With only a quick glance at each other, the brothers complied, Dean on the right, Sam on the left. In front of them was blank, solid wall—they looked to the angel, because as battle formations went, this one seemed to need some work. Gabriel widened his stance and kept his eyes on the kitchen and space beyond. "Take a step back," he ordered.

Sam and Dean stepped back.

"Gabriel," Dean started.

"Shh."

That earned a glare. "Shh," was not an appropriate battle command. He would have said as much had the angel not spared him a look that begged for indulgence. Dean gave him a shrug that said "crazy angel" and stretched his arms and shoulders, shaking out the aches.

Gabriel could feel the demons' anger coming their way. There were too many too prepared for the three of them to take them all at once. He needed chaos, space, and time.

His arms and shoulders tensed, and his hands curled slightly into claws, as though holding a ball. Then, he started to gather power. It came from his true self, from God, from the power in the Earth on which they stood. He called it up from his legs and outward from his chest and stomach. It gathered in his hands like gasped thunder, waiting, building.

Demons burst through the cellar door and into the kitchen. Shoving, snarling, they huddled like beasts and turned as a single entity in Gabriel's direction. Still more feet on the stairs, pushing up until they crowded the room. Old women, old men, and some as young as teenagers, white, black, latino, Indian.

The archangel lowered his chin and glared. The effort to restrain his power made him suck heavy breaths. Lava melted and churned with his anger. Hate colored his perfect face. He was a portrait of fury.

But he waited. The demons came closer, giving unsure looks to each other. Still, their foe didn't move. Another heartbeat, to get the best shot.

"Get him!"

There.

Gabriel moved in a blur—brought his hands up like he was rolling a boulder, stepped his weight into it, and released. A concussion ripped the air—an explosion! The kitchen wall the length of the room blew inward, hurtling wood and stone countertop, demon and dirt into and over counters, back into the living room. They bounced and broke like rag dolls, crying out in terror.

The brothers both ducked from the explosion, their jaws slamming painfully and teeth aching from the impact. They stood in awe as they were coated in drywall dust. But it was momentary, and when Gabriel charged through the dust cloud, they were quick to follow. Sam went for a demon still picking himself up off the ground. Dean shoved the sword through a woman whose back was broken against the counter.

In the large space of the living room, a demon dusted himself off with one hand and brandished a sword with the other. The sheer novelty of his foolishness caught Gabriel's attention, and he left lesser foes for a more entertaining engagement. The two circled, pacing the floor, while others groaned around them and found their feet.

The demon held his sword with confidence, a broad smile plastered to his face. It was enough to give the angel pause. He gave his foe a calculating look.

The demon attacked with amazing speed. Twice the sword arced through the air. Twice, Gabriel swirled from its bite.

His enemy charged. He dodged the body slam, but the demon struck out with his blade, and the tip sliced Gabriel's forearm. The sheer shock of it made him gasp. Pain, real pain, shot up his arm, aching and burning with a quality he recalled from Hell. Gabriel dropped his eyes to his arm, the sliced leather, the bleeding flesh beneath. How...?

Crack!

He doubled over from a blow to the head from behind, his vision going blurry. The demon with the sword wound up for a fatal strike—he assumed, that's what he would do anyway—and Gabriel swiped an arm, thrashing out with unfocused power. It sent his enemy into the wall.

Crack!

A second blow to the base of his skull, and he was suddenly on his knees. Panic gripped his senses, and he looked up. The sword again.

An arc of blue.

What was the demon's head thudded on the floor in front of him, its body falling to the side. _Dean._

Gabriel dropped completely and rolled onto his back—because someone kept hitting him and _someone_ was going to die. An Indian woman held a board in both hands. She raised it again for a third swing, but he lashed out with a gripping hold. She struggled to move and screamed impotent fury down upon him. Dean shoved the sword through her chest and held it there until she was silent. He pulled back, and Gabriel let her fall.

The two men exchanged looks of acknowledgment, and Dean pulled Gabriel to his feet. No time to sit around, play time wasn't over.

Sam made heady progress of his own. With each demon he killed, it felt easier. The anger flowed more quickly. He found the soft parts of their souls where he could dig in and grip tightly, which made it easier. Small joys made him smile as they died—like the way their defiance turned to begging at the end. He thought using his power should leave him drained. Instead, it made him high.

Gabriel and Dean were already in the living room, fighting at each other's backs. Only able to focus on one at a time, Sam risked being outnumbered if he didn't join them. Strategy demanded he get his ass over there, necessity said otherwise.

A woman came at him, swinging a fist decked out with a large wedding ring toward his middle. He grabbed her arm, spun her, and shoved her back. As soon she was gone, a second came swinging, a man this time. Sam blocked and punched back. He might as well have punched a wall. The guy was a mountain. He grabbed Sam's forearms and shoved, using the full force of his weight to throw them up against a wall.

_Hell no._ The hand motions were just a point of focus. Sam's mind did all the work. He reached for the demon's soul. Something else reached for _his_ throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman. _Shit._ The grip of the man holding him slackened as he crushed the demon's soul. But the woman cut off his air, and his chest heaved in agony.

He switched. Held the woman, released the man.

A meaty fist hooked him across the jaw, cracked his skull against the wall. He cried out and blood splattered from his mouth. A second hook to the other side, and the world spun. His power slipped. His body jerked from the impact of a punch to the stomach, but they held him in place and wouldn't let him fall—squeezed the air out of him so his ribs hurt and he bucked involuntarily against being throttled.

He heard his name above the beat of his pulse and ringing pain.

His throat released, and he almost had enough time to draw a cleansing breath before another punch knocked him sideways and he fell. It hurt more than the first one, throbbed with his heartbeat. The demon was coming in for another blow, and he reacted instinctively, throwing up his hands for protection. The motion was followed by a will for death, and Sam found his powers roaring outward, tearing the demon apart with feral claws. It died more quickly than any of the others.

Sweating and sucking shallow breaths, Sam staggered up to standing. Ruby was holding the woman for him like a present. He half-smiled, though it hurt and his lips were painted with blood. Even dazed, he conducted the kill with pleasure.

When the drywall dust settled, another fifteen demons lay dead, scattered through the kitchen and living room. Gabriel's arm had healed, but it still pained him in a way he couldn't describe. He kept looking at it, his worry growing deeper. Dean had managed to escape heavy injury. Sam looked by far the worst, bruises already darkening on his face. Cuts on either cheek wept blood.

They stood in a circle around the doorway to the basement, shaking from adrenaline and exertion.

Dean watched Gabriel check his arm again. "You okay?"

The archangel reacted slowly, as though he had been dredged up from deep contemplation. "I think so," he said, though his voice was breathy and lacked conviction.

Sam touched his face gingerly, wincing. "So that thing you did," he said to Gabriel. "You can do that again, right? Because I'm thinking"—he motioned down the basement stairs—"that maybe you should go first."

The archangel offered a slight grin in reply.

  
Unlike the last basement they went creeping into, this one was devoid of putrefying corpses. Bit of a selling point, that. It did, however, smell heavily of blood and sulfur. There were crude bunks stacked two high filling most of the dry, cold space. Not the worst dorm Dean had ever been in, to be honest. He kicked through the detritus of slovenly demons living far too many in far too small a space.

"They're like gremlins," he muttered, as they all spread out to look for a door. The blazing sword he carried illuminated the dark corner under the stairs as he approached. The well-used handle attached to a heavy metal door glinted in the light.

"Hey, guys!" he called. Within a few seconds, they stood in a semicircle the same way they had outside the basement door.

"Bomb shelter?" Sam offered, making a face at the pain it took to talk. And then another one at the pain from the first.

Dean nodded and moved back. "Door opens out, so someone's gonna have to haul it open." He turned and gave Ruby a pointed look.

She narrowed her eyes. "Who says chivalry's dead." She stalked over and gripped the handle in both hands. It looked more like an industrial lever than a door handle, but the structure was meant to survive a nuclear hit, so heavy duty was the order of the day.

Gabriel gave the Winchesters each a look and then positioned himself just outside the arc of the door. "Inanna will be in there. Get my brother out. Get yourselves to safety." He sounded distant. "Leave the rest to me."

"Gabriel."

The archangel turned to Dean's voice and gazed at him, his stony face momentarily softening. "Get him to safety." This time it was more a plea than an order, and Dean dropped whatever protest he'd been preparing to make. Snatch and grab. Dean had more than enough memories of powerful demons to elect to face one if he didn't have to.

He checked Sam. His face was going to be a mess by tomorrow, but he looked fine. Eager, actually. If his eyes looked a little darker than usual, it was just a trick of the light.

Dean readied himself, gripped the sword tighter, and gave Gabriel a nod.

The archangel looked at Ruby. "Open it."

  
They burst into the bomb shelter and right into a melee. Inanna decidedly knew they were coming. Gabriel plowed headlong into the demonic throng that stood like a wall in front of Inanna and her altar. He lashed out with quick blows, both physical and telekinetic. A popped knee, a shattered eye, he spilled blood to keep them angry, keep them occupied. While demonic ability might slide off his armor like sheeting water, though, real assaults hit just as hard as ever, and by sheer number the demons were landing punches and kicks of their own.

Dean surged into the room with a singular purpose. Find Cas. He had to—

His heart skipped in his chest at the sight, and he went cold.

Cas stood in a bright circle of light, covered in blood, some of it still wet enough to gleam red. Blood pooled around his feet. He beat his fists against the sides of his magical cage with renewed vigor, though even from across the room, Dean could see his arms shaking with the effort. He looked sickly, and a black collar screamed like a bruise around his neck.

Their eyes met even as Dean moved across the shelter toward the Celestial Cage, heedless of any possible danger. Castiel was here, _alive_, his big blue eyes filled with too many emotions to read at once. But suddenly, they crystallized into a single one: alarm. And flicked to the side.

Dean whirled, but never made it fully around. The demon didn't even bother with telekinesis. He threw a quick jab into Dean's face, knocking him off balance. Dean stumbled into a chair by a card table, and fell face first onto the floor. He hit with a slap and quickly rolled, getting the sword out from under his body and up, defensively.

The demon was gone.

Or rather, he wasn't inches away, ready to pound Dean's face into the concrete as expected. Instead, he was running toward the group giving Gabriel a raucous pummeling. He grabbed something off of Inanna's altar, turned, and ran straight for Cas.

Dean scrambled to his feet, but it was like watching a movie in slow motion. He saw a black dagger outlined in the glow of the industrial lights. Watched the demon swing it down with full force, crossing through the Cage's barrier as the angel could not. Watched the blade sink into Castiel's left pectoral, just above his heart.

"Cas!" Horror tore Dean's voice as he shouted and made a mad dash. The deed done, the demon tried to run, but there was only one direction _to_ run, and that was through Dean and toward the door. Dean tossed strategy aside and fought on pure rage. The two met at a full run, and Dean simply let the sword find its mark in his enemy's stomach. He let go the hilt and kept running, until his hands passed through the Cage's wall and he gripped Cas by his shoulders.

The angel gaped. He stared at the knife in his chest like it was some ludicrous new growth and mouthed nonsense words. Blood pumped out of the wound and ran a river down his already sullied form. Castiel's head lolled unsteadily as he lifted his gaze to Dean and concentrated.

"Break the Cage," he rumbled and fell forward against the invisible barrier.

Heart in his throat, Dean made his hands let Cas go so he could see the symbols of the Celestial Cage. The floor was smeared with blood, obscuring more than a few of the binding sigils. He looked up, panting like he'd run a race. A second symbol circumscribed the skylight, and that was one was intact.

He needed—

Dean turned, and his eyes fell on the table and chair he'd gone crashing through. Hurriedly, he hauled them over. Now something to obscure a symbol... With each heartbeat, his left hand ached, and he turned it over to look. Long gashes from the pommel of Gabriel's sword wept blood, but not enough. Easily solved. He pulled a knife from his belt, grit his teeth, and sliced a gash on his right arm. Dean smeared the blood onto his already cut hand and mounted the chair and table in two quick leaps. He held his hand high, jumped, and swiped blood across the Cage's final binding.

The spell snapped, and Dean caught Cas in his arms as he landed. His eyes went right to the knife, and a second later he closed his hand around the grip.

It took a fraction of a second to register the pain. The handle burned his human flesh, seared it red and then blistered like red iron. Dean screamed behind closed lips and then screamed out loud, even as he pulled, but the knife refused to budge.

Unable to even feel if his hand was still gripping, he let go and shook with the pain. Tears squeezed out his eyes. Still holding Cas close with his good hand, he craned around, looking for the others. The angel's shallow breath dusted his face, and that one sensation was more important than the screaming pain in his hand that was turning his knees to rubber.

The pile of dead bodies around Gabriel grew as he thinned Inanna's loyal herd. Thinned it enough that she finally deigned to enter battle herself. Ancient language Dean had never heard battered the walls with a disharmony of voices, and the shelter itself began to shake, raining dust. The sound cut his ears and made him see stars. Gabriel's head vanished below his line of sight. And then he saw him again as he was tossed into the concrete wall. _Get my brother out. Leave the rest to me._

Sam and Ruby had gone straight for the other humans in the room. They were chained to the wall, all handcuffed to the same heavy length of links. Ruby had taken firm grip of the lock that kept the chain closed and twisted. Even a lesser demon could bend metal, though she had strained to do it, and the lock had broken with a loud snap. Sam had waved the hostages out of the bomb shelter, deflecting enraged demons as best he could while trying to keep them moving. He had debated whether it was wise to leave, but these people could handle themselves far less easily than Dean, so he followed them out and up. Ruby hung in the doorway, about to follow, when she heard Dean shouting her name.

"Ruby!" he called again, desperate, and this time she whipped around and came running. "The knife," he panted as she came close. His arm twitched, and he curled it against his side. Cas raised drowsy eyes and lifted his head.

Ruby gave them both a quick look and then grabbed the knife handle. As Dean had figured, it didn't burn. She drew it out quickly and gave him a questioning look.

"Cut the collar." His voice was gruff, filled more with pain than anything. He tightening his grip on Cas's hip and turned them with brute force so Ruby could get a good angle. He watched her press her lips into a thin line and work the knife carefully into and through the leather strip. Score another brownie point for Demon Hotpants.

When the last fiber let go, Castiel gasped and surged. He flung an arm around Dean's neck and drew a breath of sheer relief. His powers returned like a waking limb, but the aches and cuts continued to cause him pain.

Dean gave Ruby a look that was all gratitude. The sincerity was unexpected enough that she forgot to smile or smirk in triumph.

"Time to go!"

"But—"

"Go!"

Dean's gratitude was short-lived, and he fought the urge to kick her into gear. Thankfully, Ruby's sense of self-preservation kicked itself into gear, and she ran for the exit without so much as looking back to see if Dean and Cas were coming. Which they were, slowly.

Despite having his powers back, Cas was weak, oddly and disconcertingly weak. Dean took as much as his weight as he could and shuffled them along, avoiding Gabriel's roiling fight. Inanna screamed something harsh and guttural, and Gabriel cried out, dropping to one knee.

Castiel's steps faltered as they got to the door.

"Cas?"

But he wasn't paying attention. His blue gaze was locked on his brother, who threw a blast of power in Inanna's direction and then turned to look him. Dean watched as the angels communicated something to each other in that look. And then Cas was tugging on him, urging them both forward and out through the door.

  
Dean and Cas emerged into the predawn, clinging tightly. Sam and Ruby had gotten everyone out and stood waiting in the street, looking anxious and unsure up at the sky, which was already clear of clouds.

"Get everyone to the oak tree," Cas said lowly into Dean's ear. The man spared him a questioning look, but Cas's gaze was set grimly on the tree across the way. Dean suppressed his need to know all the whys and wherefores and just went with it for the simple reason that Cas was alive enough to be giving any orders at all.

"Sam!" Dean called out. His brother perked. "The tree!" He lifted his head to indicate. "Get everyone to the oak tree!"

No one seemed much in the mood for complaining, not even Cas as he stumbled barefoot over the wet, biting stones. Dean's arm hurt from gripping him and holding him up. His hand throbbed from the burn. But he pushed them both on until they stood just in front of the oak's wide branches. The Impala sat on the street close by.

Cas put forth the effort to stop Dean's advance and stood under his own power, turning to face the house. He squared his shoulders but wavered. In the space of a breath Dean was there, pressing up behind him and wrapping his good arm across his stomach to keep him from falling.

The angel's eyes never left the building. He was waiting, Dean realized. Behind them, he could hear the captives muttering and talking to Sam. Sam spoke calmly and evenly back, surely saying something placating.

What Castiel was waiting for? It didn't take long to find out.

A shaft of white light like a solid laser beam erupted suddenly from the roof, followed by the sound of splintering wood and screaming metal, then a boom like a cannon shot. Everyone gasped, some of the women squealed. Even Dean flinched. House bits rained down.

A second passed, and there came another. Another section of roofing died from a shot of light.

Then it was like fireworks. Beams shot up and out in rapid explosions at wild angles, tearing the through the structure and scattering it to the wind. A titan's giant hammers beat upon the earth, filling the air with a wall of sound.

Dean clutched Cas closer and shouted into his ear. "What _is_ that?" He leaned over the angel's shoulder to get a look at his face. Cas's lips were drawn into a broad grin. His eyes shimmered. Dean watched him mouth a reply, the words lost in the thunder: "Gabriel."

The elder Winchester's jaw dropped slightly, and he turned his attention back to the house and the strobed explosions that had become one continuous, seizure-inducing lightshow. He felt the angel move and loosened his grip. Cas was raising his arms above his head. He stood rigid and spread his fingers, letting his eyes fall closed.

The cacophony suddenly ended as abruptly as it had begun. And that's when Cas tensed.

It came soundless. A beam of light three times the width of any of the others shot straight down out of the sky, out of Heaven.

The world lost its breath and then beat out with a concussion unlike anything Dean had ever felt. It shook his body cavities, shook the dirt under his feet, knocked him windless, and hurt his eyes. The next house over peeled apart like it had been eaten like a hurricane. Cars tumbled and crumpled from the explosion, struck far more harshly by the blast than Dean knew he had been.

Then the light. A dome of whiteness flashed outward from the building. It was the whiteness of Cas's true self, the searing light of God. Dean buried his face in Cas's shoulder to blot it out and staggered at what followed.

The fires of Hell followed. He could feel the heat as it flowed around them, drying the air, threatening to set the hair on his arms on fire. He knew it was close because he had a long and intimate relationship with the qualities of fire. But he also knew that it was not as close as it could have been. They had passed through the heart of an inferno.

Dean lifted squinted eyes and peered around.

Everything was black. Beneath their feet, the grass was green. He checked behind him and saw everyone huddle together beneath the tree, which also lived. Beyond that, beyond the small bubble he realized Cas had been projecting, everything had burned. Except the car. A sweet pain hit in Dean's stomach. Cas had thought to save his car.

The angel's arms fell heavily to his sides. And then he sagged. His sudden dead weight dragged Dean down to the ground with him.

"Cas?" Dean cradled the angel's head his lap as he knelt, using his good arm to hold him close. He shook him lightly. "Cas!" Sudden panic gripped cold fingers in his chest. _Oh God, no, no no._

Cas's eyelids fluttered.

"Cas, what's wrong!" Dean leaned over, awash with dread. He could barely draw a breath. "I don't know what's wrong!" _Please, God, don't._ Why was he so weak? He had his powers back, he should be healing. And he wasn't. And something was _wrong._

His angel was dying, right here, right now. He didn't want to think it, but he _knew_ it and trembled with the terror of it.

Castiel made a small sound and lifted one hand. He brought it ponderously slowly up and back, aiming for Dean's face. He didn't have the strength to move it farther, and so it hung in the air. His hand shook and wavered, strength spent.

Tears stung at Dean's eyes. Because this? This was not fair. They'd made it. They'd found him, and he couldn't just leave like this, not for no reason. He focused on Cas's outstretched fingers. His only free hand was the one he had burned. He slid it into Cas's with a muffled scream and squeezed anyway.

"Tell me what to do," he said, voice thick with saliva and hopelessness. A shadow crossed over him, and Dean looked up to see Sam. He didn't have any words. Seemingly, he didn't need any, because Sam took off a second later running full bore toward the burned out skeleton of a house.

There was no longer a door. There was a bit of porch, which opened down into a deep hole in the ground where the first story floor used to cover the basement. The place was all cold ashes and charred wood, what was left of it.

The image of flat out fucking despair carved on Dean's face urged Sam to action. The way he held the angel's hand and curled over him like he could shield him from the world ripped Sam's heart in two. Sam never slowed. He grabbed the edge of the porch and swung himself over the side, dropping into the darkness of the basement. He shoved broken beds and melted metal out of his way. Jumped wreckage and wood. Broken sheets of drywall charred black.

"Gabriel!" Sam shouted into the darkness. He hoped he was here. Hoped he hadn't sent himself back or... or _something_ with his nuclear solution.

The door to the bomb shelter was still open, and Sam stumbled his way inside. "Gab—"

The archangel was on all fours, steam or smoke rising off his body as his whole frame heaved. His jacket and shirt lay in shreds on either side of him. Great wings, white and mottled with tan, shivered and flexed on his back. Panting, he raised his head as Sam came near.

For a second, the human forgot why he had come. He simply stared at the wings in shock, in awe. He was seeing an angel's_ wings_. And holy fuck they were glorious.

"Sam," Gabriel's unsteady voice jolted him into speech.

Sam shook himself. "It's Cas," he said breathlessly. "Something's not"—Gabriel was on his feet—"right, I don't—" Sam was talking to an empty room. He blinked and stared around. "Oh, come on! Couldn't have beamed me up?" He tossed his arms in annoyance because this is what he got for trying to help and started slogging back under his own power.

  
"Cas, please." Dean shook him lightly. "I don't know what to do," he said again.

"Let him die, that's what." A woman's voice sliced into the air. Dean flinched from the unexpected harshness and looked over, unable to comprehend what she'd said far enough to formulate a reply. The woman in a business suit sneered.

"What—"

She hocked and spit on them both. Before knowing he'd moved, Dean pulled his pistol from the holster at his back and had it pointing in her direction.

"Back off, lady!" Red fury colored his vision.

Her eyes widened at the gun, but she didn't back off. She stepped closer, her face flushing red. Tears washed into her eyes and started down her cheeks as she spoke. "Do you have any _idea_ what he did?" She crossed her arms protectively. Dean's eyes flicked briefly to the top of Castiel's head. "He raped that woman," she told him, sobbing. "Strangled her to death! And that boy..." Her voice cut off with a horrified squeak. She drew a breath to recover, still shaking. "He... _tore_... his... arm... off." She said each word with punctuated disgust, and Dean could tell she was seeing it all again.

"It wasn't his fault," Dean answered, weakly. It wasn't Cas's fault. But no, he hadn't known, either. Not whose blood it was. Not how it got to be caked all over his body.

"I was next!" The woman shrieked and jabbed a finger at her own chest.

There were sudden gasps from the others around them, and Dean watched a shadow fall across the woman's clothes and face. As one, they turned.

Gabriel was striding toward them, great angel's wings extended at his back. The sun had peaked over the horizon, sending long beams of light filtering through his white feathers. He glowed. The sun itself gloried in washing over his bare skin. His beauty alone would have given the group of humans pause. The wings, flicking and pulsing expressively, left them dumbstruck.

Even Dean had never seen an angel's wings before. He stared, raking his eyes up over the archangel's bare chest and eventually coming to rest on his deep eyes. He wondered if a look could express how sorry he was.

Gabriel knelt at Cas's side, his wings covering Dean in shadow.

"I don't know what's wrong," Dean offered in a low, fragile voice meant just for the two of them. "The demons stabbed him with some enchanted knife, but I checked, and the wound healed. There's not a scratch on him."

Gabriel touched gentle fingers to Castiel's barely moving chest. He traced lines over the blood-stained skin, looking perplexed. And then he dabbed at the spot over Cas's heart where the knife had been. To Dean: "It's not his flesh they were cutting, it was his soul."

There was the sound of running and heavy breathing. Dean felt his brother's presence at his side.

"What do we do?" he asked Gabriel.

The archangel shifted and slid his arms under his brother's knees. He wormed a hand under Cas's back. "I have to take him home."

That made sense. Dean nodded and pulled back the tears that had been threatening to spill over. He watched as Gabriel lifted Castiel's limp body. Stared at their hands, still connected. Letting go... he didn't want to let go. What if...

"Dean," Sam said gently. He closed a hand around his brother's wrist.

Dean let his tortured fingers move and jumped at the agony of it. He screamed silently and convulsed.

He let Cas go.

Gabriel stepped back, framed with yellow sunlight. He cradled his brother's head to his shoulder and studied his face. Then he gave Dean and Sam each a look of fierce love.

The archangel lowered his head and spread his wings wide. They drew back in an elegant unfolding and flapped once. The angels disappeared like a swirl of blown mist.

Dean stared at the place where they had been. He heard Sam tell the hostages to go back to their homes. Consider themselves lucky they're alive. Don't tell anyone unless you want to end up in a psych ward. The words seemed to echo in the hollowness inside. Breathing rushed around the empty tunnel, making noise. Maybe they'd been too late. He didn't know.

"Dean, we should go," Sam said.

Yeah.

"He'll be fine."

_I failed him, Sammy._

"Dude, look, I'm sorry, but we really have to go."

There were sirens in the distance. If that wasn't wholly emblematic of their lives, Dean would eat Bobby's hat next time they saw him.

He said, "I think you better drive."


	9. Chapter 9

_Laughter filled the air. Dean leaned his wooden chair back, pushing it up on two legs and swigging a beer, while Bobby went right on telling them about the time John fell face first in a muddy riverbed._

"Well he didn't know it was a cow at the time..."

And all around the table, everyone guffawed at the image, Dad most of all. Sam was smiling so hard it must have hurt, and he wiped tears from his eyes. Dean laughed more at their humor than at the story they'd only heard about billion times. But that was the fuckin' point of family, anyway, wasn't it? His ribs ached, and his jaw hurt, but they were the good kinds of hurt, the best kinds.

He sighed, smiling, and looked down into his now-empty beer bottle. Jo came swinging around his end of the table, played with his hair and plucked the bottle away. He watched her swing her hips a little more than necessary and grinned appreciatively.

Ellen at the bar chuckled right along with the rest of them and handed her daughter another full bottle to keep the booze and good times flowing, bless her half-price post-hunt heart.

"Dean..." Someone called his name, and he looked around, but Sam and Dad were watching Bobby, and the rest of the Roadhouse was empty. He set his chair on all fours and leaned forward in anticipation of the really good part of the story, where Dad's face would turn red as a barn, and that alone could make anyone bust a gut.

"Dean..." A voice said again, and Dean turned in his chair to look around.

"Hey, Sam, did you just--" But it was clear Sam wasn't listening. In fact, all of a sudden, it was clear that the whole scene was going on without him, because it was a scene. With crystal clarity, he remembered that Dad was dead. The Roadhouse was gone. And this was just a mishmash of memories. Watching them all, though, back when things were good, made his heart glad, even if knowing it wasn't real made it bittersweet. Bittersweet was better than nothing.

He sat in his chair, choosing to live out the memory and smile.

A third time, he heard his name. And this time he knew exactly who it was. Reluctantly, he pushed back his chair and got up. God, those were good times. He watched Jo laugh and was struck by how cute she looked doing it.

He turned and started for the door, craning a look over his shoulder at a roar of laughter and lifted beer bottles in salute to Dad's Great Bovine Escape of '95. Yeah, good times. When he pushed open the door, it was almost, but not quite exactly, what he expected.

A full moon shone in the night sky, and salty sea air breezed over his face. But the beach was far below. He stepped out onto one of the rock outcroppings on the cliff above the cove. The boulder was worn smooth and flat, a perfect perch overlooking a private paradise.

Castiel sat watching the ocean, his arms hooked around bent knees. It took Dean a second to realize that he'd changed his clothes, a second longer to see that it was an interpretation of his own wardrobe. Cas had on jeans with the cuffs rolled up to just below the knee and a T-shirt and short-sleeve button-down combination that Dean was fairly sure he actually owned. It made him look... human. Delightfully, adorably human. The breeze played with his hair, and Dean's pulse jumped with the urge to bury his hands in those wild strands, to feel Cas alive and not a dream, alive and not dying in his arms.

The angel turned his head slowly and lifted his eyes. He grinned as he held out a hand, beckoning Dean to take it, to come sit. God hadn't fashioned anything more tempting than that look. But...

"No," Dean told him at a whisper. Then louder, "I don't wanna do this here. You come see me in person."

Cas gazed at him curiously and dropped his hand. "As you wish."

The caress of the ocean breeze faded, and all went black.

Castiel heard Dean awaken with a deep breath and a groan as he stretched. He heard him roll, cheap sheets scratching his skin. The room was still dark, and Sam had gone to celebrate a job well done with Ruby. Dean fumbled for the bedside light.

It had been ten days since Gabriel had taken him back home. A long ten days, for the wounds to close and his strength to return. For his brother to speak kind words and suffer under desperate panicked blows of ice and fire for the effort. He was only just now his usual self, or something like it. He stared down at his hands and listened to Dean breathing.

"You coulda called or something," Dean said to his back.

The angel twisted around far enough to face him and looked perplexed.

"Let a guy know you haven't died?" Dean offered.

Oh. "I'm sorry," Castiel replied, not quite looking him in the eye. "I didn't know you were worried." It was true. He hadn't actually thought Dean would need to be updated about his status. Now he recalled Dean's hospital room, Sam's patient waiting, the constant questions to nurses and doctors. Of course. He should have realized and felt stupid for the oversight. That's what humans did when they cared. A warm spot flared in his body at the idea that Dean expected this from him.

"Well, for your information, Wingnut, pretty frickin worried," Dean sounded pissed. He slid out from under the covers and moved to the edge of the bed. His weight bowed the mattress as he sat next to Cas, not quite touching him. Castiel looked down at the space where their knees didn't meet. Even if it was through layers of fabric, he wanted to feel him, to touch his warmth. He started to shift over, but stopped and drew back at the flood of recent memories. Heated lamps, hot blood.

The guilty did not deserve gifts such as that. He hung his head quietly. His recklessness, this... desire to feel Dean in the myriad ways that were possible turned out exactly as he had been warned. It clouded his judgment, allowed him to be played for the fool and captured. So much had nearly been lost. Two lives undeniably were. Even Gabriel's methodical and heartfelt refutation of his sins failed to sufficiently scour the blood from his hands.

Eventually, Dean nudged him with his elbow. "Hey."

Cas lifted his downcast eyes and looked at him. Dean frowned slightly in reply. "What's wrong?"

He could not say it to his face and looked elsewhere, mostly to the yellow wallpaper with dismal green flowers. There was so much wrong.

"I killed those people," he said at last. "Horribly. I... tried to stop, tried to fight it, but--"

"It's not your fault." Dean's voice was resolute, but somehow his confidence made Castiel's failure seem all the more stark. The angel was shaking his head at the floor. "I'm serious!" Dean gripped his shoulder and forced him to look up. "That was some major voodoo mojo she was working, and there was nothing you could have done about it."

With wide eyes and a lift of unexplained fear, Cas pulled from Dean’s hand, an almost violent sickness turning in his gut. He gave Dean a confused and apologetic look. A moment ago he had craved his touch, and now this? Human emotions were swift and contradictory, and he struggled to piece out his body’s incomprehensible terror at so simple a thing.

Dean was watching him closely, and Castiel averted his eyes in a vain attempt to cover the turmoil.

“Cas.” His voice was gentle. Dean frowned slightly, just a crease between his eyes.

The angel felt his eyes drawn and looked over.

“The things she made you do… you know. Inanna _made_ you do them. Forced you.” He worried his lower lip and focused on something else for a moment.

“I know,” Cas replied in the intervening silence. That was the problem, wasn’t it? That for all his angelic essence, he had been powerless to prevent those deaths?

Dean gazed at him hard, a penetrating look like he was reading the insides of his eyes. “You don’t… have to be okay with that.”

“I’m not.” He scowled.

But somehow that wasn’t the right answer, or at least not the answer Dean was digging for. He saw as much in the way the man slumped, shaking his head, and raked a weary hand through his hair. Dean scratched at the back of his head and spoke to the floor.

“I’m not talking about the hostages.” He let his hand fall. After a sigh, he gripped Castiel’s shoulder again, lightly.

Instinctively, Cas pulled away, staring between Dean’s face and his hand. He looked terribly sad.

“I’m talkin’ about that,” Dean intoned.

Cas fought against the urge and squared his shoulder, though small voices he could not identify inside screamed. “I don’t know why I did that,” he said honestly, concerned that such a thing could be true.

Dean visibly swallowed. “Why does it feel like you did?”

“I…” Cas studied the sensation still churning inside. It wanted to toss Dean’s hand aside with righteous indignation. He slowly lifted one hand and wrapped it around Dean’s wrist, separating them. And this he could do, touch him this way. Touch him, he realized, of his own volition. “You did not ask permission,” he whispered, as though pronouncing the solution to a math problem. He sought confirmation in Dean’s expression and found a sorrowful smile. “_She_ did not,” he went on, still holding Dean’s hand between them. His breath quickened with the thrill of discovery. And then, “Oh,” in a small voice. Castiel broke the contact. Another thing, then, that his body had learned on its own—to be afraid of finding the borders of its skin at the hands of another, its limitations.

“It’s not your fault,” Dean said at his side, meaning more, Cas thought, that just the murders.

It didn't feel that way, even though Castiel knew the truth of his words. Voodoo was strangely potent on human flesh, and his earthly body _was_ just flesh in the end. Inanna violated him. He violated them. He sighed and turned his attention back to the wall. "They are still dead. By my hands." Hands that a wiser angel would never have let slip into a demon’s control.

It was Dean's turn to sigh then. After a moment's silence, he muttered, "It's my fault."

The incongruity knocked Cas from his own miserable contemplations, and he stared with wide blue eyes. Before he could say anything, Dean went on.

"I should've known. I keep thinkin' it, goin' over it." His voice was low and gravelly. "You needed help, and I didn't know."

Clairvoyance was not common among humans. "Dean, you couldn't have--"

"I should've known!" He insisted, looking over with anger and sorrow. He shook his head and sagged, staring down at his hands, one still red and raw. "We tried to get to you," he confessed. "Drove nonstop for two days from Wyoming once we knew where you were. But even when we were there, the city's huge, and we didn't know, and..." He looked over, eyes brimming. "I'm sorry. If we'd gotten there faster, maybe..."

"Dean," Castiel said his name just to make him stop. He didn't.

"I tried to save you." Dean said in a thick voice, full of regret and self-recrimination.

Pain gripped in Castiel's chest, and he forgot his own guilt as he saw with new clarity the responsibility Dean heaped upon himself, the expectation of success, and, more importantly, the blame for failure. "You did," he told him, impassioned and outraged that anyone's judgment of Dean should be so cruel, even if it was Dean's own. "Dean, you broke my cage with your blood. Pulled me from it with your hands!"

A slight spasm of Dean's shoulders that Castiel took as a shrug. "Wasn't enough."

Afraid of contact but still wanting it because this was _Dean_, Cas touched a few fingers briefly to the man’s cheek. "I disagree." Could not disagree more. And that had felt right, touching him that way.

He watched the man's expression shift in subtle ways as they looked at one another. The brimming tears slid back, and hope sparkled in his hazel-green eyes. Dean swallowed.

It hurt to watch, knowing that if he continued to feel guilt over the two innocent deaths, Dean would feel a guilt much more profound at not having found a way to stop it. Knowing that if he flinched at a draw of fingertips across his face, Dean would stop and _hurt _and curse himself for a carelessness that was anything but. It was wrong, so wrong. So much guilt and responsibility and not a moment's rest, even Castiel felt weary under its weight.

He would give him a moment's rest if he could. Take the responsibility for once, if there were a way. And this, this _fear _would not do. Inanna could force him to murder, take the surety that his body was his alone, but she could not and would not have the solace of Dean’s company, the balm of his pleasured sighs.

Castiel paused and gave Dean a tentative considering look. Dean lifted his eyebrows in response and watched as Cas stood and moved to stand in front of him. This, he thought, may work for them both.

"Would you do something for me?" Cas asked gently, gazing down.

"Sure."

"Give me your shirt." The angel held out his hand and kept his expression blank.

Dean hesitated for a fraction of a second, something that looked like bewilderment crossing his face, then hooked a finger into the back of his collar and pulled. He passed him his shirt, right side out and ready for wearing.

The gift was warm with his heat, and soft. Castiel looked down at the shirt in his hands with solemn consideration, and something burning and sweet coursed through him.

His goal achieved, Castiel might have dropped it to the floor, discarded it. But so much that was Dean's had been discarded already that he found he could not bear to do so. Instead, he folded it with gentle hands and set it on the spare bed.

"Sit," he said, pointing toward the headboard.

The corners of Dean's mouth twitched, and he obediently shifted toward the head of the bed.

As he moved, Castiel slipped from his trench coat, which he set next to Dean's folded shirt. He loosened his tie as Dean had shown him before and took it off. The man watched him with wide and darkening eyes, leaning his upper back against the wall.

Castiel stepped closer. "Give me your hands."

Dean dutifully held out his hands, quizzical curiosity written in the arch of one eyebrow.

Castiel looped the tie around his wrists in a deft motion and started to tie a loose knot.

"Dude, you're gonna tie me up?" Dean laughed a little, incredulous, but increasingly turned on. He smiled wickedly and tugged at the tie. "Little loose."

Castiel smirked down at him and tossed his bound hands up toward the wall. They connected just above his head like a magnet. He pulled. They didn't move.

"Oh, now that's cheating." Dean tugged again just to be sure.

The angel swept his eyes over him, unsure. “I won’t hold you if you… don’t—”

“I’m good,” came the husky reply. So trusting. Dean's bare chest already rose and fell a bit more rapidly. The black boxer-briefs he wore were, for the moment, delightfully teasing. Dean licked his lower lip, and Cas watched his eyes start low and drag their way up until their gazes met. They both smiled.

Castiel had made no plan of this, but he took encouragement from the way Dean's eyes tracked his hands. He undid the top button of his shirt, then the next, concentrating on each movement and then glancing up to gauge Dean's reaction. The man's gaze jumped from his hands to his face, and he felt a jolt when they looked into each other, exchanging desire and confirmation. Castiel lowered his eyes to the buttons. Third, fourth. He breathed unevenly. He tugged his shirt from his pants and for a moment, let it hang open, pale skin glowing. To his surprise, his own body reacted to this slow seduction, anticipation like tingling pricking his skin. The shirt sliding off his arms set them on fire with sensation, and he shivered.

He sat on the opposite bed to remove socks and shoes, then stood and contemplated his belt buckle. He lifted his eyes. Dean watched his hands; he watched Dean's face. Unlatched his belt like he had done this a number of times, drew down the zipper. His partner's eyes flashed. And then he slid his pants off, noting with pleasure that Dean licked his lips again. Yes, he could do this. Control his actions, craft Dean’s reply.

Only briefs for both of them now. The angel felt the heat of Dean's eyes on his exposed skin. And this was not the leering he suffered being Inanna's prisoner. It was a soft hand touching each ripple and valley, which evoked a sweet desire to give. Were they lovers, he wondered. It felt like an old word, a good word, one that drew a line between the sex of taking and the sex of giving. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs and pulled those down as well, nudging the clothes gently out from underfoot.

He was half-hard and they hadn't yet touched.

Castiel crawled onto the bed, not quite sure how he would start, but wanting, oh, wanting this to be good. Dean arched the moment he touched him and settled back as Cas laid himself over top of him, pressing chest to chest. The man smelled like soap. Castiel teased him with a quick nuzzle to the cheek before claiming his real prize.

Dean's lips were soft when they met, wet and slippery. Perfect for tasting, for kneading between blunt teeth. His bound hands jerked, and he moaned into Cas's mouth. The angel responded by pressing harder, sucking, and darting with his tongue, no longer as shy as it had been. Dean arched upward again, seeking more and harder contact, and suddenly his mouth was not enough.

Castiel kissed at his jaw and down the front of his throat. He slid backward, rubbing along Dean's body, and placed a trail of kisses down his chest. He pressed a hand to Dean's face and let it rest there as he gave concerted attention to each pec, scraping the stubble of his beard over tight skin, smiling as Dean flexed. He moved lips and open mouth slowly over every inch, licking and tasting, leaving him wet. Dean sighed under him, shifting and pressing his face into Cas's hand the closer his hot mouth got. A tight nipple, and Castiel didn't hesitate. He licked once and took it between his teeth.

Dean sucked a sharp breath and turned his head to the side, biting the undersides of Cas's fingers lightly.

Cas increased the pressure, until he felt Dean _pantpant_ and finally moan aloud. The sound shot down Cas's spine to his dick, and he felt warmth spread across his body. He released the one nipple and went for the other. Dean turned his head the other way, so Cas's fingers tickled his hair, and gasped at the warm, wet tongue. He pressed into Castiel's mouth until the pain hit just the right spot. He let out a pleasured grunt and sighed as Castiel moved on.

He started at the breastbone, laving to work up saliva, and then licked a slow single line all the way up Dean's chest and throat, over his chin until he met his lips. Dean made a startled and amused series of sounds as Cas's tongue passed over his Adam's apple and then again over his chin.

"You're so expressive," the angel muttered into him, kissing his lips to swollen. If this was rare or not, he didn't know, but it was beautiful.

His hands traced up his lover's bound arms, and he suddenly broke their kiss to investigate the soft inner flesh he had found. He ran one light finger up and down the underside of Dean's arm, fascinated that it made him squirm. He kissed there. And there. Lightly, lovingly. And the heat from his breath bathed the area in goose pimples.

Dean released a ragged breath that washed over Castiel's cheek. The angel looked at him, deep into passion-struck eyes. All want. It struck him like a bell that every tug against his bonds, every lift of Dean's hips, was sheer want. And this look was begging.

Cas felt his own breath quicken at Dean's desire. His eyes traced every curve and feature of his face. Dean's lips parted and he mouthed barely spoken words: Touch me.

Yes. The angel wriggled further down with the aching need to touch Dean everywhere. Dean was hard beneath the thin bit of black fabric he still wore. Cas ran his hand over him once, just to feel, and then slid the boxer-briefs down and off, kneeling just at the edge of the foot of the bed. Dean lay splayed and heaving deep breaths before him.

Cas touched his ankles and spread them wider. He crouched, pressing a hand lightly on each leg, and started to extend with massaging grips, stretching a cougar's tawny paws up Dean's thighs, around his groin, and up to his stomach, beading with sweat. His hands slid in a continuous motion up Dean's arms, eliciting a moan as their skin connected and Cas settled his weight.

He shifted his hips, rubbing his dick against his lover's, pressing both between their bodies. The man growled and rocked for him to do it again. Lifted his head and opened his mouth for another kiss that Cas could not for the life of him deny.

He would see him writhe with pleasure he couldn't contain. Pant and beg and be given all he asked.

But he had never done this before. Not... not kindly, not under his own power. Castiel paused and placed chaste kisses up and down Dean's cheek as he struggled with the memories he wanted to recall and those that came unbidden. He gave a sudden jerk at the shrill sound of an echoed scream and stopped all motion, even breathing, to screw his eyes shut and keep it out.

“Cas.” His name whispered and a light nudge against his face. He drew away slightly and opened his eyes. Dean watched, concerned when he should not have to be concerned. Castiel bent to kiss the furrows from his brow and let his lips alight where they wanted, soft and quick until he could hear his partner smile. By this small joy, he found the memories he sought.

He recalled Dean spitting for lubricant, easing slowly.

Cas edged back, spit into his hand, and rubbed it over himself. Even the friction of his own hand was pleasure. But this was not for him. He glanced, and Dean was watching him intensely, his expression unreadable. With one hand cupping Dean's ass, he lifted his weight just enough for an easy angle. Pressed forward, nearly melting at the heat of contact, and fumbling found his way.

Castiel moved with measured control, pressing himself into Dean's incredible heat with constant pressure. So tight it hurt, but pleasure swept through him the deeper he went, and he broke into heavy pants as his lover's body took him in completely.

He nearly fell forward, bracing a hand against the wall and finding a length of exposed neck to kiss and suck.

Pulling back made him shudder. The thrust in, still searingly tight, took calculated strength.

Hot breath and soft grunts, Castiel shook with effort. It took nearly a minute before he realized that the only sounds he was hearing were his own. Dean was silent, utterly. And deathly still.

The angel stopped mid-stroke and moved back slightly, shifting weight to his knees.

Dean's head was turned to one side, his lips curled inward, and he was breathing impossibly short, shallow breaths, pained and frightened gasps that made his nostrils flare. Every muscle corded and shook with tense effort. Cas watched with a spiraling horror. He drew himself out slowly, and the moment he was free, Dean's lips parted and released a puffed breath that could be nothing but relief. His straining muscles relaxed.

That... was why it felt so... Castiel shifted their positions, moving Dean's legs closer together so he could straddle his hips. When he settled, Dean was staring up at him in puzzlement. Cas stared back with worry.

"I hurt you," he said searchingly, his heart beating out pain.

Dean's expression changed in the space of a single swallow, and he looked away, shamefaced. "Wasn't you."

Cas hovered above him, but Dean's eyes were downcast, and he would not look up. Castiel squeezed Dean's hips with his knees. He heard him draw a thick breath and then look up. His words came out whispered and guilty. "Alistair... did a lot to me on the rack."

Castiel recoiled physically, horror punching him in the gut. _Things you did not want. Like Inanna._ He shook involuntarily.

"It's just a reflex," Dean went on.

Cas looked wonderingly down and placed a hand lightly on his sternum. "Your body remembers," he said breathlessly. Even remade and new, his flesh understood. Flesh was a strange thing.

"I guess," Dean shrugged.

The angel closed his eyes against sorrow and guilt. He pressed his hand down a little more. "You should have said." He opened his eyes, and they shined with bright earnest. "Why didn't you say?"

Dean shrugged again and looked away. "You wanted me," he muttered.

Cas felt the sting of tears. "Happy," he told him. "I wanted you _happy_."

"I'm sorry," Dean replied quickly, looking up. "I was jus' tryin' to--"

"Don't," Castiel said suddenly, seizing the moment. He nudged back so he could meet Dean's eyes. "Don't try. Don't try to... make me happy or angry. Don't try to be pleased or pleasant. Don't _try _to be satisfied or satisfying. Don't try to hold back or... hold on. Don't try to be or not to be. Don't... _try_. You are always trying. Dean, please, don't _try_." It was possibly the longest string of words he'd ever said, and he willed Dean to understand them. _You give. You always give. Please stop giving._

Dean's mouth moved like he was trying to translate. He could read by Cas's expression that this meant something, maybe everything. But he just... couldn't...

In a weak voice broken with emotion, "I don't know what that means."

Castiel sighed and hung his head, hunching in defeat. "I know."

Something was broken, or breaking. Dean could feel it. Something big and important, something that he knew he was supposed to fix, but he _couldn't_ because he just didn't know how. He tugged against his bonds, lurching forward. "I don't know what you want." His voice was desperate, pleading. "Cas, just tell me what you _want._ _Please_..."

Castiel's shoulders shook.

Dean lurched forward again on instinct, struggling.

For a moment, there was a silence that filled with Dean's friable hope.

Two warm drops tapped on Dean's skin, and he nearly shattered.

When the angel finally looked up, he was crying. And for a second they simply stared at one another. Cas's gaze was bright and unspeakably sad. Dean felt his heart in his throat, because whatever this was, it looked to him like failure.

At a loss, Castiel did the only thing he could think to do. He leaned down, arching like a cat, and kissed him--because he liked kissing, because kissing was pointless except for pleasure. He kissed him until the crying stopped. Kissed him with his whole body, with his hands on his face and their thighs entwined and squeezing so he could wring joy from pain, and every inch of skin that could be melded together. And if ever angels had been made of compassion and God's love, he kissed him with that too, because an angel shouldn't cry at the tenderness of man.

Cas kissed him until the heat between them flared back to life. Until sweat-slicked skin cried out to be touched and Dean started bucking with need beneath him. He slid down Dean's body, his legs still wrapped around his lover's, and considered. With a rocking and stretching of limbs, he untangled them both and ended up kneeling between Dean's spread legs.

He slanted a look to his face. Dean practically begged, with a wide-eyed helplessness and a twitch of his hips. A bit of precum glistened at the tip of his dick. Cas gave it a contemplative look.

Then he pressed his hands on the soft inner flesh of the other man's thighs and caressed up, drawing his hands together at the same time he leaned down. He was curious as much as anything. Let a cautious tongue dart out and swirl around the very tip. Dean moaned loudly and thrust upward, letting out a sigh of frustration that he found no further heat.

Cas pressed Dean's hip down with one hand to hold him, to keep him from doing any of the work. And then he gave Dean what he was after. Opened his mouth and sucked the other's dick in, laving with his tongue. It felt alien, this hot and silky skin. He caressed, sucked hard, drew back. Flicked his tongue over the very tip until he felt Dean shudder and bobbed down. Caressed. Sucked.

It became a single motion. A faster one. Dean struggled to thrust, and he held him down harder.

His free hand roamed Dean's skin, up and down his thigh, over his stomach, then barely grazing over his balls, and yet he yelped, thrashing. Ahh... The angel slowed his pace, traced his fingers back to investigate. He felt around lightly, teasing. And Dean strained against the hand that held him down. "Cas!" he moaned out sounds of frustration and pleasure. Cas's name became a punctuated hiss on Dean's tongue.

Small motions told Cas that Dean was close. He sucked and licked faster. In the last second he decided to test what it would be like and kept his lips clamped as Dean bucked and made a strangled cry. Hot liquid spurted into his mouth, and he remained still until it was done.

Dean sighed, trembling. And Castiel sat up and swallowed, trying to decide what he thought.

"You don't have to do that," Dean said with a chuckle.

Cas looked over at him, eyes wide in question.

"Swallow? Didn't look like you enjoyed it, so... Just telling you, you don't--"

"I was curious," the angel answered. He crawled up the bed until he and Dean were face to face. Dean was flushed, sweating, and beautiful. With a thought, Cas let the power holding his hands up release, and Dean dropped his arms, encircling his angel's head. The man smiled sweetly and stole a kiss.

Castiel felt the fabric of his tie slide down his side and fall on the floor.

"My turn," Dean told him, grinning wickedly.

"That was your turn," Cas countered.

Dean's eyes narrowed playfully. "Fine, your turn then."

The angel shook his head lightly. "It was mine as well." He slid off to Dean's right and curled himself tightly into his side. He nuzzled in close to Dean's neck and exhaled, just to watch him shiver.

Dean laughed uneasily. "C'mon, man, you're gonna ruin my record." He tugged at Cas's arm.

Cas sighed deeply and pressed a simple kiss to the sensitive spot on Dean's neck. Innocently, though with purpose, he asked, "Is it wrong that I should pleasure you?" Dean couldn't see the calculating look in his eyes.

"Well, no, but--"

Castiel shifted and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. He settled, willing to wait out Dean's annoyance. Or perhaps perturbation. He set his hand lightly on Dean's sternum as he had done before, and he felt the fight relax out of him.

"May I stay?" Cas asked. He hadn't even known he was going to ask, hadn't known he had wanted that until the words came out.

Dean glanced at the hand on his chest and angled a look over at his brother's empty bed. "I... dunno," he admitted in a low voice.

The angel nodded, rubbing rough skin against Dean's shoulder. "Then I'll go before he comes back." Cas felt Dean's arm around him tighten. He made a sudden, panicked sound and bucked against the pressure, his heart pounding as his mind and body screamed warnings.

Dean startled and let his arm fall open. He returned Cas’s frightened stare with pained sympathy. “Sorry,” he muttered.

_No._ Castiel concentrated on his racing heartbeat and willed it to slow. By inches, he lowered himself back down, setting his head against Dean’s shoulder with a cautiousness that made his eyes sting. It was outrageous. He felt prepared for flight, primed for fleeing, even as he set his hand on his partner’s chest to feel him breathe.

"Don't go," Dean said after a moment’s silence.

"But--" Cas shifted to peer at Sam’s bed.

Dean was shaking his head. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know. Okay? I just..."

"I can't do both," Cas told him gently.

Dean's eyes fell shut, and he beat his fist against the bed because he couldn’t wrap Castiel in a hug as he might have done. The angel watched emotions play over his face.

"Wh-... when Gabriel showed up... he said you were gone," Dean whispered. "I thought..." The lump in his throat choked off his words, but Cas could see them trembling on his lips.

Desperate sadness pricked his heart. Dean had thought him dead. He grappled closer. Stretched an arm across Dean's stomach and gripped a leg between his thighs. He nestled his face into his lover's neck. For fear, Dean did not grapple him back—an alien thing. A loving one.

"I am here," Cas rumbled and squeezed him tight as proof.

Dean sniffed and opened his eyes.

"Then stay."


End file.
